jKesser 
MARCO 

POLO 


DONN 
BYRNE 


■T 


MESSER 
MARCO  POLO 


MESSER 
MARCO  POLO 

BY 

DONN  BYRNE 


ILLUSTRATED 
BY  C.   B.   FALLS 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


PR 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"I  know  your  heart,  Marco  Polo"      Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

There  was  a  great  admiral's  galley  ready 
to  put  to  sea  against  Genoa       ...        i8 

A  burning  wind  came,  and  the  sand  rose, 

and  the  desert  heeled  like  a  ship     .      .        86 

"Oh,  Golden  Bells,  Golden  Bells!"     .      .     144 


MESSER 
MARCO  POLO 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

THE  message  came  to  me,  at  the  sec- 
ond check  of  the  hunt,  that  a  coun- 
tryman and  a  clansman  needed  me.  The 
ground  was  heavy,  the  day  raw,  and  it 
was  a  drag,  too  fast  for  fun  and  too 
tame  for  sport.  So  I  blessed  the  country- 
man and  the  clansman,  and  turned  my 
back  on  the  field. 

But  when  they  told  me  his  name,  I  all 
but  fell  from  the  saddle. 

"But  that  man's  dead  I" 

But  he  was  n't  dead.     He  was  in  New 

York.     He  was  traveling  from  the  craigs 

of  Ulster  to  his  grandson,  who  had  an 

orange-grove    on    the    Indian    River,    In 

Florida.     He  wasn't  dead.     And  I  said 

to  myself  with  impatience,   "Must  every 

3 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


man  born  ninety  years  ago  be  dead?" 
"But  this  is  a  damned  thing,"  I  thought, 
"to  be  saddled  with  a  man  over  ninety 
years  old.  To  have  to  act  as  garde-mal- 
ade  at  my  age  I  Why  could  n't  he  have 
stayed  and  died  at  home?  Sure,  one  of 
these  days  he  will  die,  as  we  all  die,  and 
the  ghost  of  him  will  never  be  content 
on  the  sluggish  river,  by  the  mossy  trees, 
where  the  blue  herons  and  the  white 
cranes  and  the  great  gray  pelicans  fly.  It 
will  be  going  back,  I  know,  to  the  boom- 
ing surf  and  the  red-berried  rowan-trees 
and  the  barking  eagles  of  Antrim.  To 
die  out  of  Ulster,  when  one  can  die  in 
Ulster,  there  is  a  gey  foolish  thing  ..." 
But  the  harsh  logic  of  Ulster  left  me, 
and  the  soft  mood  of  Ulster  came  on  me, 
as  I  remembered  him,  and  I  going  into  the 
town  on  the  train.  And  the  late  winter 
grass  of  Westchester,  spare,  scrofulous; 
the  jerry-built  bungalows;  the  lines  of  un- 
comely   linen;     the     blatant     advertising 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


boards — all  the  unbeauty  of  it  passed 
away,  and  I  was  again  in  the  Antrim  glens. 
There  was  the  soft  purple  of  the  Irish 
Channel,  and  there  the  soft,  dim  outline 
of  Scotland.  There  was  the  herring 
school  silver  in  the  sun,  and  I  could  see  it 
from  the  crags  where  the  surf  boomed 
like  a  drum.  And  underfoot  was  the 
heather,  the  springy  heather,  the  belled 
and  purple  heather  .    .    . 

And  there  came  to  me  again  the  vision 
of  the  old  man's  thatched  farmhouse  when 
the  moon  was  up  and  the  bats  were  out, 
and  the  winds  of  the  County  Antrim  came 
bellying  down  the  glens  .  .  .  The  turf  fire 
burned  on  the  hearth,  now  red,  now  yel- 
low, and  there  was  the  golden  light  of 
lamps,  and  Malachi  of  the  Long  Glen  was 
reciting  some  poem  of  Blind  Raftery's, 
or  the  lament  of  Pierre  Ronsard  for 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots: 

Ta  ribin  o  mo  cheadshearc  ann  mo  phoca  sios. 
Agas     mna    Eirip    ni    leigheasfadaoii     mo     bhron, 
faraorl 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


Ta  me  reidh  leaf  go  ndeantar  damh  comhra  caoll 
Agas  gobhfasfaidh  an  fear  no  dhiaidh  sin  thrid  mo 
lar  aniosJ 

There  is  a  ribbon  from  my  only  love  in  my  pocket 

deep, 
And  the  women  of  Europe  they  could  not  cure  my 

grief,  alas! 
I  am  done  with  you  until  a  narrow  coffin  be  made 

for  me. 
And    until    the    grass    shall    grow    after    that    up 

through  my  heart! 

And  I  suddenly  discovered  on  the  rum- 
bling train  that  apart  from  the  hurling  and 
the  foot-ball  and  the  jumping  of  horses, 
what  life  I  remembered  of  Ulster  was 
bound  up  in  Malachi  Campbell  of  the  Long 
Glen  .  ,  . 

A  very  strange  old  man,  hardy  as  a 
blackthorn.  Immense,  bowed  shoulders, 
the  face  of  some  old  hawk  of  the  moun- 
tains, hair  v/hite  and  plentiful  as  some  old 
cardinal's.  All  his  kinsfolk  were  dead 
except  for  one  granddaughter  .  .  .  And 
he  had  become  a  tradition  in  the  glens  .  .  . 
It  was  said  he  had  been  an  ecclesiastical 
student  abroad,  in  Valladolid,  .  ,  and  that 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


he  had  forsaken  that  life.  And  in  France 
he  had  been  a  tutor  in  the  family  of  Mac- 
Mahon,  roi  d'  Irlande,  .  .  and  some- 
where he  had  married,  and  his  wife  had 
died  and  left  him  money,  .  .  and  he  had 
come  back  to  Antrim  ...  He  had  been  in 
the  Papal  Zouaves,  and  fought  also  in  the 
American  Civil  War.  .  .  A  strange  old 
figure  who  knew  Greek  and  Latin  as  well 
as  most  professors,  and  who  had  never 
forgotten  his  Gaelic  .   .   . 

Antrim  will  ever  color  my  own  writing. 
My  Fifth  Avenue  will  have  something  In 
it  of  the  heather  glen.  My  people  will 
have  always  a  phrase,  a  thought,  a  flash 
of  Scots-Irish  mysticism,  and  for  that  I 
must  either  thank  or  blame  Malachi 
Campbell  of  the  Long  Glen.  The  stories 
I  heard,  and  I  young,  were  not  of  Little 
Rollo  and  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  but  the  hor- 
rible tale  of  the  Naked  Hangman,  who 
goes  through  the  Valleys  on  Midsummer's 
Eve;    of    Dermot,    and    Granye    of    the 


8  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

Bright  Breasts;  of  the  Cattle  Raid  of 
Maeve,  Queen  of  Connacht;  of  the  old 
age  of  Cuchulain  in  the  Island  of  Skye; 
grisly,  homely  stories,  such  as  yon  of  the 
ghostly  foot-ballers  of  Cushendun,  whose 
ball  is  a  skull,  and  whose  goal  is  the  por- 
tals of  a  ruined  graveyard;  strange  re- 
ligious poems,  like  the  Dialogue  of  Death 
and  the  Sinner: 

Do  thugainn  loistin  do  gach  deoraidh  treith-lag — 
I  used  to  give  lodging  to  every  poor  w^anderer; 
Food  and  drink  to  him  I  would  see  in  want, 
His  proper  payment  to   the   man   requesting   reck- 
oning, 
Och!     Is  not  Jesus  hard  if  he  condemns  mel 

All  these  stories,  of  all  these  people  he 
told,  had  the  unreal,  shimmering  quality 
of  that  mirage  that  is  seen  from  Portrush 
cliffs,  a  glittering  city  in  a  golden  desert, 
surrounded  by  a  strange  sea  mist.  All 
these  songs,  all  these  words  he  spoke,  were 
native,  had  the  same  tang  as  the  turf 
smoke,  the  Gaelic  quality  that  Is  In  dark 
lakes   on  mountains   summits,   In  plovers 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


nests  amid  the  heather  .  .  .  And  to  re- 
member them  now  in  New  York,  to  see 
him  .    .    . 

Fifteen  years  had  changed  him  but  little : 
a  little  more  tremor  and  slowness  in  the 
walk,  a  bow  to  the  great  shoulders,  an  eye 
that  flashed  like  a  knife. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  New  York, 
Malachi?" 

"I  was  here  before,  your  honor  will  re- 
member.     I   fought   at  the  Wilderness." 

I  forbore  asking  him  what  change  he 
had  found.     I  saw  his  quivering  nostrils. 

In  a  few  days  he  would  proceed  south, 
when  he  had  orientated  himself  after  the 
days  of  shipboard. 

That  night  it  seemed  every  one  chose 
to  come  in  and  cluster  around  the  fire. 
Randall,  the  poet;  and  the  two  blond  Dan- 
ish girls,  with  their  hair  like  flax;  Fraser, 
the  golfer,  just  over  from  Prestwick;  and 
a  young  writer,  with  his  spurs  yet  to  win; 
and  this  one  .  .  .  and  that  one. 


lo  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

They  all  kept  silence  as  old  Malachi 
spoke,  sportsmen,  artists,  men  and  wo- 
men of  the  world;  a  hush  came  on  them, 
and  their  eyes  showed  they  were  not  be- 
fore the  crackling  fire  In  the  long  room, 
but  amazed  In  the  Antrim  glens. 

Yes,  old  Malachi  said,  things  were 
changed  over  there,  and  a  greater  change 
was  liable  .  .  .  People  whispered  that  In 
the  Valley  of  the  Black  Pig  the  Boar 
without  Bristles  had  been  seen  at  the 
close  of  the  day,  and  In  Templemore  there 
was  a  bleeding  Image,  and  these  were  om- 
inous portents  .  .  .  Some  folks  believed 
and  some  did  n't  .  .  .  And  the  great  Irish 
hunter  that  had  won  the  Grand  National, 
the  greatest  horse  in  the  world  .  .  .  But 
our  Man  of  War,  Malachi?  .  .  Oh,  sure, 
all  he  could  do  was  run,  and  a  hare  or  a 
greyhound  could  beat  him  at  that;  but 
Shawn  Spadah,  a  great  jumper  him,  as 
well  as  a  runner;  in  fine,  a  horse.  .  .  And 
did  I  know  that  Red  Simon  McEwer  o£ 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  if 

Cushundall  had  gone  around  Portrush 
In  eighteen  consecutive  fours?  ,  .  A 
Rathlin  Islander  had  tried  the  swim  across 
to  Scotland,  but  did  n't  make  it,  and  there 
was  great  arguing  as  to  whether  It  was 
because  of  the  currents  or  of  lack  of 
strength.  .  .  There  were  rumblings  in  the 
Giants'  Causeway  .  .  .  very  strange  .  .  . 
A  woman  in  Oran  had  the  second  sight, 
the  most  powerful  gift  of  second  sight  in 
generations  .  .  .  There  was  a  new  piper 
in  Islay,  and  it  was  said  he  was  a  second 
McCrimmon  .  .  .  And  a  new  poet  had 
arisen  In  Uist,  and  all  over  the  Highlands 
they  were  reciting  his  songs  and  his  "La- 
ment for  the  Bruce."  .  .  Was  I  still  as 
keen  for,  did  I  still  remember  the  poems, 
and  the  great  stories?  .  - 

"  'Behold,  the  night  is  of  great 
length,'  "  1  quoted,  "  'Unbearable.  Tell 
us,  therefore,  of  those  wondrous  deeds.'  " 

"If  you  've  remembered  your  Gaidhlig 
as  you've  remembered  your  Greek!" 


12  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

"It 's  a  long  time  since  you  Ve  had  a 
story  of  me,  twelve  long  years,  and  it 's 
a  long  time  before  you  '11  have  another, 
and  I  going  away  to-morrow.  Old  Ser- 
geant Death  has  his  warrant  out  for  me 
this  many  a  day,  and  it  's  only  the  wisdom 
of  an  old  dog  fox  that  eludes  him;  but 
he  '11  lay  me  by  the  heels  one  of  these  days, 
.  .  then  there  '11  be  an  end  to  the  grand 
stories  ...  So  after  this,  if  you  're  want- 
ing a  story,  you  must  be  writing  it  your- 
self .  .  . 

"But  before  I  die,  I  '11  leave  you  the 
story  of  Marco  Polo.  There  's  been  a 
power  of  books  written  about  Marco 
Polo.  The  scholars  have  pushed  up  their 
spectacles  and  brushed  the  cobwebs  from 
their  ears,  and  they  've  said,  'There  's 
all  there  is  about  Marco  Polo.' 

"But  the  scholars  are  a  queer  and  blind 
people,  Brian  Oge.  I  've  heard  tell  there  's 
a  doctor  in  Spain  can  weigh  the  earth. 
But  he  can't  plow  a  furrow  that  is  needful 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  13 


for  planting  corn.  The  scholars  can  tell 
how  many  are  the  feathers  In  a  bird's 
wing,  but  it  takes  me  to  Inform  the  doctors 
why  the  call  comes  to  them,  and  they  fly 
over  oceans  without  compass  or  sextant 
or  sight  of  land. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  scholar  standing  in 
front  of  a  slip  of  a  girl?  In  all  his  learn- 
ing he  can  find  nothing  to  say  to  her.  And 
every  penny  poet  in  the  country  knows. 

"Let  you  be  listening  now,  Brian  Oge, 
and  let  also  the  scholars  be  listening.  But 
whether  the  scholars  do  or  not,  I  'm  not 
caring.  A  pope  once  listened  to  me  with 
great  respect,  and  a  marshal  of  France 
and  poets  without  number.  But  the  schol- 
ars do  be  turning  up  their  noses.  And, 
mind  you,  I  've  got  as  much  scholarship 
as  the  next  man,  as  you  '11  see  from  my 
story. 

"Barring  myself,  is  there  no  one  in 
this  house  that  takes  snuff?  No  I  Ah, 
well,  times  do  be  changing." 


Now  it  's  nearing  night  on  the  first 
day  of  spring,   and  you  could  see 
how  loath  day  was  to  be  going  for  even 
the  short  time  until  the  rising  of  the  sun 
again.     And  though  there  was  a  chill  on 
the  canals,  yet  there  was  great  color  to 
the  sunset,  the  red  of  it  on  the  water  eb- 
bing into  orange,  and  then  to  purple,  and 
losing  itself  in  the  olive  pools  near  the 
moorlng-ties.     And  a  little  wind  came  up 
from  the  Greek  islands,  and  now  surged 
and  fluttered,  the  way  you  'd  think  a  har- 
per might  be   playing.      You  'd  hear  no 
sound,  but  the  melody  was  there.     It  was 
the  rhythm  of  spring,  that  the  old  people 
recognize. 

But  the  young  people  would  know  it  was 
spring,  too,  by  token  of  the  gaiety  that 
was  in  the  air.     For  nothing  brings  joy 

14 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  15 


to  the  heart  like  the  coming  of  spring. 
The  folk  who  do  be  blind  all  the  rest  of 
the  year,  their  eyes  do  open  then,  and  a 
sunset  takes  them,  and  the  wee  virgin  flow- 
ers coming  up  between  the  stones,  or  the 
twitter  of  a  bird  upon  the  bough  .  .  .  And 
young  women  do  be  preening  themselves, 
and  young  men  do  be  singing,  even  they 
that  have  the  voices  of  rooks.  There  is 
something  stirring  in  them  that  is  stirring 
In  the  ground,  with  the  bursting  of  the 
seeds  .   .   . 

And  young  Marco  Polo  threw  down  the 
quill  in  the  counting  house  where  he  was 
learning  his  trade.  The  night  was  com- 
ing on.  He  was  only  a  strip  of  a  lad,  and 
to  lads  the  night  is  not  rest  from  work, 
and  the  quietness  of  sleeping,  but  gaming 
and  drinking,  and  courting  young  women. 
Now,  there  were  two  women  he  might 
have  gone  to,  and  one  was  a  great  Vene- 
tian lady,  with  hair  the  red  of  a  queen's 
cloak,  and  a  great  noble  shape  to  her  and 


1 6  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

great  dignity.  But  with  her  he  would 
only  be  reciting  verses  or  making  grand, 
stilted  compliments,  the  like  of  those  you 
would  hear  in  a  play.  And  while  that 
seemed  to  fit  in  with  winter  and  candle- 
light, it  was  poor  sport  for  spring.  The 
other  one  was  a  black,  plump  little  gown- 
maker,  a  pleasant,  singing  little  woman, 
very  affectionate,  and  very  proud  to  have 
one  of  the  great  Polos  loving  her.  She 
was  eager  for  kissing,  and  always  asking 
the  lad  to  be  careful  of  himself,  to  be  put- 
ting his  cloak  on,  or  to  be  sure  and  drink 
something  warm  when  he  got  home  that 
night,  for  the  air  from  the  canals  was 
chill.  The  great  lady  was  too  much  of  the 
mind,  and  the  little  gown-maker  was  too 
much  of  the  body,  either  of  them,  to  be 
pleasing  young  Marco  on  the  first  night 
of  spring. 

Now,  it  is  a  queer  thing  will  be  pleasing 
a  young  man  on  the  first  night  of  spring. 
The  wandering  foot  itches,  and  the  mind 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  17 


and  body  are  keen  to  follow.  There  Is 
that  inside  a  young  man  that  makes  the 
hunting  dog  rise  from  the  hearth  on  a 
moonlight  night:  "Begor!  It's  myself '11 
take  a  turn  through  the  fields  on  the  chance 
of  a  bit  of  coursing.  A  weasel,  maybe,  or 
an  otter,  would  be  out  the  night.  Or  a 
hare  itself.  Ay,  there  would  be  sport  for 
you!  The  hare  running  hell-for-leather, 
and  me  after  him  over  brake  and  dell. 
Ay !  Ay !  Ay !  a  good  hunt 's  a  jewel ! 
I  '11  take  a  stretch  along  the  road." 

Or  there  Is  in  him  what  does  be  troub- 
ling the  birds,  and  they  on  tropic  Islands. 
"Tweet-tweet,"  they  grumble.  "A  grand 
place  this  surely,  and  very  comfortable 
for  the  winter.  The  palm-trees  are  green, 
but  I  'd  rather  have  the  green  of  young 
grass.  And  the  sea,  you  ken.  It  becomes 
monotonous.  Do  you  remember;  the 
peaches  of  Champagne,  wife,  and  the 
cherry-trees  of  Antrim?  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  farmer  who  was  such  a  bad  shot, 


1 8  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

and  his  wife  with  the  red  petticoat?  I  'm 
feeling  fine  and  strong  in  the  wings,  avour" 
neen.  What  do  you  say?  Let's  bundle 
and  go!" 

He  wandered  out  with  the  discontent  of 
the  season  on  him.  The  sun  had  dropped 
at  last,  and  everywhere  you  'd  see  torches, 
and  the  image  of  torches  in  the  water. 
On  the  canals  of  the  town  great  barges 
moved.  Everywhere  were  fine,  noble  sha- 
dows and  the  splashing  of  oars.  There 
was  a  great  admiral's  galley,  ready  to  put 
to  sea  against  Genoa.  There  a  big  mer- 
chantman back  from  Africa.  And  along 
the  canals  went  all  the  people  in  the 
world,  you  'd  think.  Now  it  was  a 
Frenchman,  all  silks  and  satins  and  "la-di- 
da,  monsieur!"  Or  a  Spaniard  with  a 
pointed  beard  and  long,  lean  legs  and  a 
long,  lean  sword.  And  now  It  was  a  Greek 
courtesan,  white  as  milk,  sitting  In  her 
gondola  as  on  a  throne.  Here  was  a 
Muscovite,  hairy,  dirty,  with  fine  fur  and 


reoiif  to  put  h  ^ea  a^iivt  ^cnoa 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  19 

fine  jewels  and  teeth  sharp  as  a  dog's. 
And  now  an  effeminate  Greek  nobleman, 
languid  as  a  bride.  And  here  were  Moor- 
ish captains,  Othello's  men,  great  giants 
of  black  marble ;  and  swarthy,  hook-nosed 
merchants  of  Palestine;  and  the  squires  of 
Crusaders — pretty,  ringleted  boys,  swear- 
ing like  demons.  And  here  and  there 
were  Scots  and  Irish  mercenaries,  kilted, 
sensitive  folk,  one  moment  smiling  at  you 
and  the  next  a  knife  in  your  gizzard. 

And  as  he  went  through  the  courts  there 
were  whispers  and  laughter,  and  occasion- 
ally a  soft  voice  Invited  him  to  enter;  but 
he  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

Near  the  Canal  de  Mestre,  which  is 
close  by  the  Ghetto,  he  stopped  by  the 
wine-shop  called  The  Prince  of  Bulgaria, 
and  he  could  hear  great  disputation.  And 
some  were  speaking  of  Baldwin  II,  and 
how  he  had  no  guts  to  have  let  Palaeolo- 
gus  take  Constantinople  from  him.  And 
others    were    murmuring    about    Genoa. 


20  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

"Mark  us,  they  mean  trouble,  those  dogs. 
Better  wipe  them  off  the  face  of  the  earth 
now."  And  a  group  were  discussing  the 
chances  of  raiding  the  Jewish  Kingdom 
of  the  Yemen.  "They  Ve  got  temples 
there  roofed  with  gold."  .  .  And  an  Irish 
piper  was  playing  on  a  little  silver  set  of 
pipes,  and  an  Indian  magician  was  doing 
great  sleight  of  hand  ... 

"I  'II  go  in  and  talk  to  the  strange  for- 
eign people,"  said  Marco  Polo. 


11 

Now,  you  might  be  thinking  that  the 
picture  I  'm  drawing  is  out  of  my 
own  head.  Let  you  not  be  thinking  of  It 
as  it  is  now,  a  city  of  shadows  and  ghosts, 
with  a  few  scant  visitors  mooning  In  the 
canals.  The  Pride  of  the  West  she  was, 
the  Jewel  of  the  East.  Constantinople 
was  her  courtyard.  Greece,  Egypt,  Abys- 
sinia, Bulgaria,  and  Muscovy,  her  ten- 
acre  fields.  The  Crusaders  on  their  way 
to  fight  the  Saracen  stopped  to  plead  fot 
her  help  and  generosity.  There  were  no 
soldiers  more  chivalrous,  not  even  the 
French.  There  were  no  better  fighters, 
not  even  the  Highland  clans.  Sailors? 
You  'd  think  those  fellows  had  invented 
the  sea.  And  as  for  riches  and  treasures, 
oh!  the  wonder  of  the  world  she  was1 
Tribute   she   had   from  everywhere;   the 

21 


22  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

*— ^-^■^^■^■^^^^^^»^^^"^^^— ■— — — 1— — ^— — 

four  great  horses  of  Saint  Mark  they  came 
from  Constantinople.  The  two  great 
marble  columns  facing  the  Piazetta,  sure, 
they  came  from  Acre.  When  foreign  pow- 
ers wanted  the  loan  of  money,  it  was  to 
Venice  they  came.  Consider  the  probity 
of  Venetian  men.  They  once  held  as 
pledge  the  Crown  of  Thorns  itself.  King 
Louis  IX  of  France  redeemed  it. 

The  processions  of  the  .tradespeople 
were  like  a  king's  retinue,  and  they  march- 
ing in  state  on  the  election  of  a  doge.  Each 
in  their  separate  order  they  'd  come,  the 
master  smiths  first,  as  is  right,  every  one 
garlanded  like  a  conqueror,  with  their  ban- 
ner and  their  buglers.  The  furriers  next 
in  ermine  and  taffeta;  the  tanners,  with 
silver  cups  filled  with  wine;  the  tailors  in 
white,  with  vermilion  stars;  the  wool' 
workers,  with  olive  branches;  the  quilt- 
makers  In  cloaks  trimmed  with  fleur-de- 
lis;  the  cloth-of-gold  weavers,  with  golden 
crowns  set  with  pearls;   the  shoemakers 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  23 

in  fine  silk,  while  the  silk-workers  were  in 
fustian;  the  cheese-dealers  and  pork-butch- 
ers in  scarlet  and  purple ;  the  fish-mongers 
and  poulterers,  armed  like  men-of-war; 
the  glass-makers,  with  elegant  specimens 
of  their  art;  the  comb-makers,  with  little 
birds  in  cages;  the  barber-surgeons  on 
horseback,  very  dignified,  very  learned, 
and  with  that  you  'd  think  there  'd  be  an 
end  to  them,  but  cast  your  eye  back  on  that 
procession  and  you  'd  find  guilds  as  far 
as  your  sight  would  reach  .    .    . 

Let  you  be  going  down  the  markets, 
and  what  would  you  see  for  sale?  Boots, 
clothes,  bread?  No,  they  were  out  of 
sight;  but  scattered  on  the  booths,  the 
like  of  farls  of  bread  on  a  fair-day,  you  'd 
find  cloves  and  nutmegs,  mace  and  ebony 
from  Moluccas,  that  had  come  by  way 
of  Alexandria  and  the  Syrian  ports;  san- 
dalwood from  Timor,  in  Asia;  camphor 
from  Borneo.  Sumatra  and  Java  sent  ben- 
zoin to  her  markets.     Cochin  China  sent 


24  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

bitter  aloes-wood.  From  China  and  Ja- 
pan and  from  Slam  came  gum,  spices, 
silks,  chessmen,  and  curiosities  for  the 
parlor.  Rubies  from  Peru,  fine  cloths 
from  Coromandel,  and  finer  still  from 
Bengal.  They  got  spikenard  from  Ne- 
paul  and  Bhutan.  Their  diamonds  were 
from  Golconda.  From  Nirmul  they  pur- 
chased Damascus  steel  for  their  swords. 
Nor  is  that  all  you  'd  see,  and  you  'd  be 
going  down  by  the  markets  on  a  sunny 
morning,  and  a  fine-thinking,  low-voiced 
woman  on  your  arm.  You  'd  see  pearls 
and  sapphires,  topaz  and  cinnamon  from 
Ceylon;  lac  and  agates,  brocades  and  coral 
from  Cambay;  hammered  vessels  and  in- 
laid weapons  and  embroidered  shawls 
from  Cashmere.  As  for  spices,  never 
would  your  nostrils  meet  such  an  odor: 
bdellium  from  Scinde,  musk  from  Tibet, 
galbanum  from  Khorasan;  from  Afghan- 
istan, asafetida;  from  Persia,  sagapenum; 
ambergris  and  civet  from  Zanzibar,  and 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  25 


from  Zanzibar  came  ivory,  too.  And 
from  Zeila,  Berbera,  and  Shehri  came  bal- 
sam and  frankincense  .    .    . 

And  that  was  Venice,  and  Marco  Polo 
a  young  man.  And  now  it 's  only  a  town 
like  any  other  town  but  for  its  churches 
and  canals.  There  's  many  a  town  has 
ghosts,  but  none  the  ghosts  that  Venice 
has;  not  Rome  itself,  or  Tara  of  the  kings. 

"Once  did  she  hold,"  Randall  quoted,  "the  gorgeous 

East  in  fee; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West;  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate; 
And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea!" 

Time  is  the  greatest  rogue  of  all.  Not 
all  the  arrows  of  Attlla  can  do  the  dam- 
age of  a  trickle  of  sand  in  an  hour-glass! 
Tyre  and  Sidon,  Carthage,  ancient  Baby- 
lon, and  Venice,  queen  of  them  all. 

I  am  describing  Venice  to  you  for  this 
reason.      You    might    now    stand   where 


26  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

Troy's  walls  once  were  and  say  to  your- 
self :  "Was  this  where  Helen  walked  with 
her  little  son?  Was  this  where  the  love- 
liest face  of  ages  wept?"  And  a  chill  of 
doubt  would  come  on  you,  and  you  would 
think,  "I  Ve  been  wasting  my  sorrow  and 
wasting  my  love,  for  it  was  all  nothing 
but  an  old  tale  made  up  in  a  minstrel's 
head." 

And  sometime  in  Venice,  after  your  din- 
ner in  a  hotel,  you  'd  go  out  for  a  while 
in  a  harca,  that  would  have  no  more  ro- 
mance to  it  nor  the  bark  a  gillie  would  row, 
and  you  salmon-fishing  on  a  cold,  blus- 
tery day,  and  you  would  feel  disappointed, 
you  having  come  so  far,  and  you  'd  say : 
"It  was  a  grand  story  surely,  and  bravely 
did  it  pass  the  winter  evening;  but  was  n't 
old  Malachi  of  the  Long  Glen  the  liar  of 
the  world!" 

I  wouldn  't  have  you  saying  that,  and 
I  dead.  In  all  I  'm  telling  you,  I  'd  have 
you  to  know  there  's  not  a  ha'porth  of  li^. 


Ill 

AND  so  Marco  Polo  went  into   the 
wine-shop    to    see    and    hear    the 
strange  foreign  people. 

It  was  a  dark,  long  room,  very  high,  full 
of  shadows  between  the  flaming  torches 
on  the  wall.  At  one  side  of  it  was  a  great 
fire  burning,  for  all  it  was  the  first  night 
of  spring.  At  one  end  of  it  were  the  great 
barrels  of  liquor  for  the  thirsty  customers; 
black  beer  for  the  English  and  the  Irish, 
grand,  hairy  stuff  with  great  foam  to  it, 
and  brown  beer  for  the  Germans;  and 
there  was  white  wine  there  for  the  French 
people,  and  red  wine  for  the  Italians, 
asquebaugh  for  the  Scots,  and  rum 
from  the  sugar  cane  for  such  as  had 
cold  In  their  bones.  There  wa5>  all  kind 
of  drink  there  in  the  brass-bound  bar- 
rels— drink   would   make   you   mad    and 

27 


28  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


drink  would  make  you  merry,  drink 
would  put  heart  in  a  timid  man  and 
drink  would  make  fighting  men  peaceful  as 
pigeons;  and  drink  that  would  make  you 
forget  trouble — all  in  the  brass-bound  bar- 
rels at  the  end  of  the  room.  And  pleasant, 
fat  little  men  were  roaming  around  serv- 
ing the  varied  liquor  in  little  silver  cups, 
and  fine  Venetian  glasses  for  the  wine, 
and  in  broad-bellied  drinking-pots  that 
would  hold  more  than  a  quart. 

And  there  was  such  a  babel  of  language 
as  was  never  heard  but  in  one  place  before. 

Some  of  the  drinkers  were  dicing  and 
shouting  as  they  won,  and  grumbling  and 
cursing  when  they  lost.  And  some  were 
singing.  And  some  were  dancing  to  the 
Irish  pipes.  And  there  was  a  knot  around 
the  Indian  conjurer. 

But  there  was  one  man  by  himself  at  a 
table.  And  him  being  so  silent,  you  *d 
think  he  was  shouting  for  attention.  He 
was  so  restful  against  the  great  commo* 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  29 

t'lon,  you  'd  know  he  was  a  great  man. 
You  might  turn  your  back  on  him,  and 
you  'd  know  he  was  there,  though  he  never 
even  whispered  nor  put  out  a  finger.  A 
fat,  pleasant,  close-coupled  man  he  was, 
in  loose,  green  clothes,  with  gold  brocade 
on  them.  And  there  were  two  big  gold 
ear-rings  in  his  lobes.  He  smoked  a  wee 
pipe  with  the  bowl  half-ways  up  it.  The 
pipe  was  silver  and  all  stem,  and  the  bowl 
no  bigger  than  a  ten-cent  piece.  His  shoul- 
ders were  very  powerful,  so  you  'd  know 
he  was  a  man  you  should  be  polite  to,  and 
out  of  that  chest  of  his  a  great  shout  could 
come.  He  might  have  been  a  working- 
man,  only,  when  he  fingered  his  pipe, 
you  'd  see  his  hands  were  as  well  kept  as 
a  lord's  lady's,  fine  as  silk  and  polished  to 
a  degree.  And  you  'd  think  maybe  a 
pleasant  poet,  which  is  a  scarce  thing, 
until  you  looked  at  the  brown  face  of  him 
and  big  gold  ear-rings.     And  then  you  'd 


30  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

know  what  he  was:  he  was  a  great  sea- 
captain. 

But  where  did  he  come  from?  You 
might  know  from  the  high  cheek  bones 
and  the  eyes  that  were  on  a  slant,  as  it 
were,  that  it  was  an  Eastern  man  was  in 
it.  It  might  be  Java  and  it  might  be 
Borneo,  or  it  might  be  the  strange  country 
of  Japan. 

And  there  were  a  couple  of  strange  oc- 
currences in  the  wine-shop.  The  Indian 
juggler  was  being  baited  by  the  fighting 
men,  as  people  will  be  after  poking  coarse 
fun  at  a  foreigner.  The  slim  Hindu  fel- 
low was  n't  taking  it  at  all  well.  He  was 
looking  with  eyes  like  gimlets  at  a  big 
bullock  of  a  soldier  that  was  leading  the 
tormenters. 

"Show  me  something  would  surprise 
me,"  he  was  ordering.  "Be  damned  to 
this  old  woman's  entertainment!"  says  he. 
"As   a  magician,"   says   he,    "you  're   the 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  3t 

worst  I  ever  saw.     If  you  're  a  magician," 
says  he,  "I  'm  a  rabbit." 

And  there  was  a  roar  at  that,  because 
he  was  known  to  be  a  very  brave  man. 

"Show  me  a  magic  trick,"  says  he. 

Says  the  Hindu: 

"Maybe  you  'd  wish  you  had  n't  seen 
it." 

"Be  damned  to  thatl"  says  the  big  fel- 
low. 

"Look  at  this  man  well,"  the  Hindu  told 
the  room.  "Look  at  him  well."  He^ 
throws  a  handful  of  powder  in  the  fire 
and  chants  in  his  foreign  language.  A 
cloud  of  white  smoke  arises  from  the  fire. 
He  makes  a  pass  before  it,  and,  lo  and 
behold  ye !  it 's  a  screen  against  the  wall. 
And  there  's  a  great  commotion  of  sha- 
dows on  the  screen,  and  suddenly  you  see 
what  it 's  all  about.  It 's  a  platform, 
and  a  man  kneeling,  with  his  head  on  the 
block.  You  don't  see  who  it  is,  but  you 
get  chilled.  And  suddenly  there  's  a  heads- 


32  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

man  in  a  red  cloak  and  a  red  mask,  and 
the  ax  swings  and  falls.  The  head  pops 
off,  and  the  body  falls  limp.  And  the  head 
rolls  down  the  platform  and  stops,  and 
you  see  It 's  the  head  of  the  fellow  who 
wanted  to  see  something,  and  it 's  In  the 
grisly  grin  of  death  .   .   . 

"There  's  your  latter  end  for  you,"  says 
the  conjurer.  "You  wanted  to  see  some- 
thing,    I  hope  you  're  content." 

The  big  fellow  turns  white,  gulps,  gives 
a  bellow,  and  makes  a  rush;  but  the  con- 
jurer Is  n't  there,  nor  his  screen  nor  any- 
thing. 

Everybody  In  the  room  was  white  and 
shaken — all  but  the  sea-captain.  He  just 
tamps  his  pipe  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  smokes  on.  He  does  n't  even 
take  a  drink  from  his  glass. 

And  a  little  while  later  an  Irish  chief- 
tain walks  in.  He  's  poor  and  ragged 
and  very  thin.  You  might  know  he'd 
been  fighting  the  heathen  for  the  Holy 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  33 


Sepulchre,  and  so  entitled  to  respect,  no 
matter  what  his  condition.  And  behind 
him  are  five  clansmen  as  ragged  as  he.  But 
a  big  German  trooper  rolls  up. 

"And  what  are  you?"  says  the  big, 
burly  fellow. 

"A  gentleman,  I  hope,"  says  the  rag- 
ged chief. 

"  'Tis  yourself  that  says  it,"  laughs  the 
German  trooper.  The  chieftain  snicks  the 
knife  from  his  armpit,  and  sticks  him  in 
the  jugular  as  neat  as  be  damned. 

"You  'd  might  take  that  out,  Kevin 
Beg" — the  Irish  chief  points  to  the  killed 
man — "and  throw  it  in  the  canal.  Some- 
body might  stumble  over  it  and  bark  their 
shins." 

Now  this,  as  you  can  conceive,  roused 
a  powerful  commotion  in  the  room.  They 
were  all  on  their  feet,  captains  and  mar- 
iners and  men-at-arms,  cheering  or  grum- 
bling,  and  arguing  the  rights  and  wrongs 
of  the  matter.     All  but  the  sea-captain, 


34  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

who  saw  it  all,  and  he  never  blinked  an 
eyelid,  never  even  missed  a  draw  of  the 
pipe. 

And  then  Marco  Polo  knew  him  to  be 
a  Chinaman,  because,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  Chinamen  are  never  surprised  at 
anything. 


IV 

So  Marco  Polo  goes  over  and  salutes 
him  politely. 

"I  wonder  If  you  mind  my  sitting  down 
by  you  for  a  while,"  he  says.  "I  per- 
ceive you  're  from  China." 

The  sea-captain  waves  him  politely  to 
his  place. 

"I  'm  from  China."  He  smiles.  "You 
guessed  right." 

"Is  it  long  since  you  Ve  been  in  China?" 

"Well,  that  depends  upon  what  you  call 
long,"  says  the  captain.  "If  you  mean 
time,  it 's  one  thing.  If  you  mean  voyage, 
it 's  another.  For  you  've  got  to  take 
into  account,"  says  he,  "adverse  winds, 
roundabout  turns  to  avoid  currents,  pos- 
sible delays  to  have  the  ship  scraped  free 
from  the  parasite  life  that  does  be  at- 
taching itself  to  the  strakes,  time  spent  in 

35 


36  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

barter  and  trade.  Other  matters,  too; 
the  attacks  of  pirates;  cross-grained  prin- 
ces who  don't  want  you  to  be  leaving  their 
ports  with  a  good  cargo  in  your  hold; 
sickness;  loss  of  sails  and  masts;  repairs 
to  the  ship.  It  was  n't  a  short  journey 
and  it  was  n't  a  long  one." 

"It  will  be  a  long  ways  to  China,  I  'm 
thinking." 

"I  can  tell  you  how  long  it  is  from 
China  to  here,  and  you  can  reverse  that, 
and  you  will  get  a  fair  idea  of  how  long 
it  is  from  here  to  China.  I  left  Zeitoon 
with  a  cargo  of  porcelain  for  Japan,  and 
traded  it  for  gold-dust,  and  from  Japan 
I  went  to  Chamba  to  lay  in  a  store  of 
chessmen  and  pen-cases.  And  from  Cham- 
ba I  sailed  to  Java,  which  is  the  greatest 
island  in  the  world.  Java  is  fifteen  hun- 
dred miles  from  Chamba,  south  and  south- 
east, and  it  took  me  four  months  sailing, 
but  a  sea-captain  cannot  pass  Java  by,  for 
it  is  the  chief  place  for  black  pepper,  nut- 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO 37 

^— ^^— ^^—  i^^^^^^^— i^^— — ■— — ^i^ 

megs,  spikenard,  galingale,  cubebs,  cloves, 
and  all  the  spices  that  grow. 

"And  I  stopped  at  various  small  islands 
from  there,  until  I  came  to  Basma,  which 
is  the  island  of  the  unicorns.  And  there 
we  trade  in  pygmies,  which  ignorant  peo-. 
pie  think  are  human  folk.  They  are  just 
a  wee  monkey,  with  all  the  hair  plucked 
out  except  the  hair  of  the  beard.  There 
is  great  money  in  them. 

"I  stopped  at  Sumatra  for  cocoanuts 
and  toddy,  and  just  for  water  at  Drago- 
ian.  Dragoian  is  not  a  good  city.  It  is 
filled  with  sorcerers  who  have  tattooed 
faces.  At  Lambri  I  put  in  for  the  sago 
you  buy  from  the  hairy  men  with  tails. 

"Son,  never  stop  at  the  isle  of  Anda* 
man.  The  men  there  have  faces  like  dogs. 
They  are  a  cruel  generation,  and  eat 
every  one  they  can  catch.  I  could  tell 
you  a  story,  but  I  would  not  spoil  this 
fine  spring  night.  Go  rather  to  the  island 
of  Ceylon,  and  see  the  King's  Ruby,  which 


38  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

is  the  greatest  jewel  in  the  world.  I  stop- 
ped there  and  at  Coromandel  for  the 
pearls  the  divers  go  down  in  the  sea  for, 
and  there  are  no  clothes  on  that  island, 
so  that  every  one  goes  nal<:ed  as  a  fish. 
And  there  is  the  shrine  of  Saint  Thomas. 
I  was  there. 

"Gujarat,  Tana,  I  stopped  there.  The 
Male  and  Female  Islands  I  put  into  for 
ambergris.  Svestra,  which  is  full  of  ma- 
gicians— I  was  there,  too.  Madagascar 
and  Zanzibar,  where  they  live  on  camel 
flesh,  I  was  there.  And  from  Zanzibar 
I  came  north  to  Abyssinia,  because  I  had 
to  get  an  ostrich  there  for  the  King  of 
Siam.  And  there  was  a  letter  and  a  par- 
cel for  the  Sultan  of  Egypt.  So  I  went 
to  Cairo.  I  had  a  month  on  my  hands,  so 
I  thought  I  'd  run  over  and  see  Venice, 
because  it 's  a  hobby  of  mine,  you  might 
say,  to  see  the  world. 

"Now  let  me  reckon.  Four  and  three 
makes  seven,  and  four  more  are  eleven. 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  39 

and  six  are  seventeen,  and  let  us  say  nine 
with  that,  and  you  have  twenty-six.  And 
the  month  I  'm  forgettng  on  the  rocks  of 
Aden  is  twenty-seven,  and  a  week  here 
and  a  week  there  for  bad  winds  and  such 
hke.  It  would  be  safe  to  put  that  at  three 
months.  So  it 's  two  years  and  a  half  since 
I  left  China." 

"You  never,"  says  young  Marco,  "met 
anybody  in  China  by  the  name  of  Polo?" 

"Poh-lo?  Poh-lo?  China's  a  bigger 
place  nor  you  would  imagine,  laddie. 
There  's  half  a  hundred  million  people 
there." 

"These  were  foreigners,"  Marco  ex- 
plained, "traders.  They  were  at  the  court 
of  the  great  Khan." 

"Polo?  Polo?  Well,  now,  I  think 
I  've  heard  of  them.  Was  one  of  them  a 
big  red-bearded  man  with  a  great  eye  for 
a  horse  and  a  great  eye  for  a  woman?" 

"That  would  be  my  Uncle  Matthew." 

"For  God's  sake!     And  was  the  other 


4D  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

a  cold,  dark  man,  a  good  judge  of  a  jewel 
and  a  grand  judge  of  a  sword?" 

"My  father,  Nicholas  Polo." 

"For  God's  sake !  you  're  the  son  of 
one  and  the  nephew  of  the  other!" 

"Did  you  know  them?" 

"Ah,  laddie,  how  would  I  be  knowing 
people  like  that !  Sure,  they  're  great 
folks,  high  in  the  esteem  of  the  grand 
Khan,  and  I  'm  only  a  poor  sailorman." 

"But  you  heard  of  them." 

"I  heard  of  them.  They  were  in  good 
health.  And  I  heard  they  were  on  their 
way  home,  though  they  would  travel  over- 
land and  not  risk  the  great  dangers  of  the 
sea.  I  suppose,  if  they  go  back  to  China, 
you  '11  be  going  with  them?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Marco  Polo. 

"You  ought  to  see  China.  It 's  a  great 
country,  a  beautiful  country." 

"It  would  have  to  be  very  great  and 
beautiful,"  says  Marco  Polo,  "to  out- 
weigh the  greatness  and  the  beauty  that 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  41 

are  here.  You  must  n't  think  I  'm  running 
down  your  country,  mister,"  says  he;  "but 
for  greatness,  where  is  the  beating  of 
Venice  in  this  day  ?  What  struck  Constan- 
tinople like  a  thunderbolt  but  the  mailed 
hand  of  Venice?  When  the  Barbary  cor- 
sairs roamed  the  seven  seas,  so  that  it 
was  no  more  safe  for  a  merchant  vessel  to 
be  sailing  than  for  a  babe  to  be  walking 
through  a  wild  jungle,  it  was  Venice  who 
accepted  the  challenge  and  made  the  great 
sea  as  peaceful  as  the  Grand  Canal.  Who 
humbled  proud  Genoa?  And  hurled  the 
Saracen  from  Saint  John  of  Acre's  walls? 
Venice.  And  as  for  magnificence,  the  ret- 
inue of  our  doge  when  he  goes  to  marry 
the  sea  with  a  ring  it  makes  the  court  of 
Lorenzo  seem  like  a  huckster's  train." 

"It  is  a  crowning  city." 

"And  as  for  beauty,  sir,"  went  on  Mar- 
co Polo,  "there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
like  San  Marco's,  and  it  ablaze  in  the  set- 
ting sun,  and  the  great  pillars  before  it 


42  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

rising  in  tongues  of  flame.  And  was 
there  ever  in  all  time  anything  like  the 
Grand  Canal  at  the  dusk  of  day,  and  the 
torches  beginning  to  show  like  fireflies, 
and  the  lap  of  the  water,  and  stringed 
music,  and  the  great  barges  going  by  like 
swans,  now  a  battle-hacked  captain  of  war, 
now  a  great  gracious  lady?  And  the 
moon  does  be  rising  .    .    . 

"You  've  sailed  all  the  way  from  China 
and  seen  strange  and  beautiful  things, 
but  I  remember  one  summer's  day,  when 
I  took  out  my  little  sailing-boat  and  went 
out  on  the  water  to  compose  a  poem  for 
a  lady,  and  the  water  was  blue — oh,  as 
blue  as  the  sky's  self,  and  the  sands  of  the 
Lido  were  silver,  and  the  water  shufiled 
gently  over  them,  as  gently  as  a  child's 
little  feet.  And  there  was  a  clump  of 
olive-trees  there  so  green  as  to  be  black, 
and  there  alighted  before  it  a  great  scar- 
let Egyptian  bird.  And  the  beauty  of 
that  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes,  so  that 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  43 


I  thought  of  nuns  in  their  cells  and  bare- 
foot friars  in  the  hollow  lands,  and  they 
striving  for  paradise.  What  did  I  care 
about  paradise?  A  Venetian  I.  So  why 
should  I  want  to  go  to  China?" 

"You  have  made  a  great  case  for  the 
grandeur  and  beauty  of  Venice,"  says  the 
sea-captain.  "It  is  lovely,  surely,"  says 
he,  filling  his  pipe;  "but  finer  poets  nor 
you,  my  lad,"  says  he,  lighting  it,  "have 
tried  to  describe  the  grace  and  beauty  of 
Tao-Tuen,  and,"  says  he  taking  a  draw, 
"have  failed." 

"Tao-Tuen  is  a  beautiful  name.  It  is 
like  two  notes  plucked  on  a  harp.  And 
it  must  be  a  wonderful  place,  surely,  if 
great  poets  cannot  describe  it." 

"It  Is  not  a  place,"  said  the  captain, 
"it 's  a  girl." 

"As  for  women,  Venice — " 

"Venice  be  damned  1"  said  the  sea-cap- 
tain. "Not  In  Venice,  not  in  all  the  world, 
is  there  the  like  for  grace  or  beauty  of 


44  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


Tao-Tuen.  They  call  her  Golden  Bells," 
he  says. 

"Is  she  a  dancing-girl?"  Marco  asked. 

"She  is  not  a  dancing-girl,"  says  the  sea- 
captain,  "she  is  the  daughter  of  Kubla, 
the  great  Khan." 

"A  cold  and  beautiful  princess,"  says 
Marco  Polo. 

"She  is  not  a  cold  and  beautiful  prin- 
cess," says  the  sea-captain.  "She  is  warm 
as  the  sun  in  early  June,  and  she  may  be 
beautiful  and  a  princess,  but  we  all  think 
of  her  as  Golden  Bells,  the  little  girl  in 
the  Chinese  garden." 

"Did  you  ever  see  her?"  says  Marco, 
eagerly.     "Tell  me." 

"I  saw  her  before  I  left,"  says  the  sea- 
captain.  "I  was  at  the  Khan's  palace  of 
Chagannor,"  says  he,  "seeing  of  the  chief 
of  the  stewards  was  there  anything  I  could 
get  for  him,  and  I  in  foreign  parts.  And 
as  I  was  being  rowed  back  along  the  river 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  45 

by  my  ten  brawny  sailormen,  what  did  I 
pass  but  the  garden  of  Golden  Bells. 

"And  there  she  was  by  the  river-side, 
a  little  brown  slip  of  a  girl  in  green  coat 
and  trousers,  with  a  flower  in  her  dark 
hair. 

"And  I  lower  my  head  in  reverence  as 
we  pass  by.  But  I  hear  her  low,  merry 
voice,  by  reason  of  which  they  call  her 
Golden  Bells. 

"  'Ho,  master  of  the  vessel !'  she  calls. 
'Where  do  you  go?' 

"And  the  sailors  back  water  with  a 
swish,  and  I  stand  up  respectfully,  for  all 
she  is  only  a  slip  of  a  girl. 

"  'I  go  to  foreign  parts,  Golden  Bells,' 
I  tell  her;  'to  far  and  dangerous  places, 
into  the  Indian  Ocean.  To  the  Island  of 
Unicorns  and  to  the  land  where  men  eat 
men.' 

"  'I  hope  you  come  back  safe,  master 
of  the  vessel,'  she  says.  'I  hope  you  have 
a  good  voyage  and  come  back  safe.     It 


46  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


must  be  a  dreadful  strain  on  your  people  to 
think  of  you  so  far  away.* 

"  'In  all  this  wide  land,'  I  tell  her,  'there 
is  none  to  worry  about  me.  I  have  neither 
chick  nor  child.' 

"  'Golden  Bells  will  worry  about  you, 
then,'  she  said,  'and  you  in  the  hazards  of 
the  sea.  And  take  this  flower  for  luck.' 
And  she  gave  me  the  flower  from  her 
hair.  'And  let  it  bring  you  luck  against 
the  anger  of  the  ocean  and  the  enemies  all 
men  have.  And  let  me  know  when  you  are 
back,  because  I  '11  be  worried  about  a 
man  of  China  and  him  in  danger  on  the 
open  sea.' 

"And  was  n't  that  a  wonderful  thing 
from  a  daughter  of  Kubla  to  me,  a  poor 
sailor-man  ? 

"The  son  of  the  King  of  Siam  came  to 
woo  her  with  a  hundred  princes  on  a  hun- 
dred elephants,  but  she  would  n't  have 
him.  'I  don't  wish  to  be  a  queen,'  she 
told   her    father.      'How   could   I   be    a 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  47 

queen?  I  am  only  Golden  Bells.'  Nor 
would  she  have  anything  to  say  to  the 
Prince  of  the  Land  of  Darkness,  who  came 
to  her  with  sea  Ivory  and  pale  Arctic  gold. 
'The  sun  of  China  is  In  my  heart,  and  you 
would  n't  have  me  go  up  Into  the  great 
coldness  to  shiver  and  die  ?' 

"So  she  remains  in  her  garden  by  the 
lake  of  Cranes  with  LI  Po,  the  great  poet, 
him  they  call  the  Drinker  of  Wine,  to 
make  songs  for  her;  and  the  Sanang  Tung- 
Chih,  the  great  magician,  to  perform 
wonders  for  her  when  she  is  wearied;  and 
Bulagan,  her  nurse,  to  take  her  to  her 
heart  when  she  is  sad. 

"And  sad  she  is  a  lot  of  the  time,  they 
tell  me.  She  sits  in  her  garden  in  the 
dusk,  playing  her  lute,  and  singing  the 
song  of  the  Willow  branches,  which  is  the 
saddest  love-song  in  the  world  .  .  . 

"And  why  she  should  be  singing  a  sad 
love-song,  is  a  mystery,  for  her  soft,  brown 
beauty  is  the  flower  of  the  world.     For 


48  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

there  would  be  no  lack  of  suitors  for  her, 
nor  Is  she  the  one  to  refuse  love.  The 
only  thing  I  make  of  it  is  that  the  right 
hour  has  n't  come. 

"The  beauty  of  Venice  jumps  to  your 
eyes,  but  the  beauty  of  this  pulls  at  your 
heart.  Little  brown  Golden  Bells,  in  her 
Chinese  garden,  singing  the  song  of  the 
Willow  Branches  at  the  close  of  day  .  .  . 
Is  that  not  better  nor  Venice?" 

But  he  got  no  word  out  of  Marco  Polo, 
sitting  with  his  chin  cupped  in  his  hands. 
And  that  was  the  finest  answer  at  all,  at 
all.  ,  , 


THE  times  went  by,  and  Marco  Polo 
busied  himself  with  his  daily  affairs, 
keeping  tracic  of  the  galleasses  with  mer- 
chandise to  strange  far-away  ports,  buy- 
ing presents  for  refractory  governors  who 
did  n't  care  for  foreign  trade  In  their  do- 
mains, getting  wisdom  from  the  old  clerks, 
and  knowledge  from  the  mariners;  In  the 
main,  acting  as  the  son  of  a  great  house 
while  the  heads  of  It  were  away. 

You  would  think  that  he  would  have 
forgotten  what  the  sea-captain  of  China 
told  him  about  Golden  Bells,  what  with 
work  and  sport  and  other  women  near 
him.  You  would  think  that  would  drop 
out  of  his  memory  like  an  old  rime.  But 
it  stuck  there,  as  an  old  rime  sometimes 
sticks,  and  by  dint  of  thinking  he  had  her 

fast  now  in  his  mind — so  fast,  so  clear, 

49 


50  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

so  full  of  life,  that  she  might  be  some  one 
he  had  seen  an  hour  ago  or  was  going  to 
see  an  hour  from  now.  He  would  think 
of  the  now  merry,  now  sad  eyes  of  her, 
and  the  soft,  sweet  voice  of  her  by  reason 
of  which  they  called  her  Golden  Bells,  and 
the  dusky  little  face,  and  the  hair  like 
black  silk,  and  the  splotch  of  the  red 
flower  in  it.  She  was  as  distinct  to  him  as 
the  five  fingers  on  his  hand.  It  was  n't 
only  she  was  clear  in  his  mind's  eye,  but 
she  was  inside  of  him,  closer  than  his 
heart.  She  was  there  when  the  sun  rose, 
so  he  would  be  saying,  "It 's  a  grand  day  is 
in  it  surely.  Golden  Bells."  She  was  there 
in  the  dim  counting  house  and  he  going 
over  In  the  great  intricate  ledgers  the 
clerks  do  be  posting  carefully  with  quills 
of  the  gray  goose,  so  that  he  would  be 
saying:  "I  wonder  where  this  is  and 
that  is.  Sure  I  had  my  finger  on  it  only 
a  moment  ago.  Golden  Bells."  And  when 
the  dusk  was  falling,  and  the  bats  came 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  51 

out,  and  the  quiet  of  Christ  was  over 
everything,  and  the  swallows  flew  low  on 
the  great  canals,  she  would  be  beside  him, 
and  never  a  word  would  he  say  to  her,  so 
near  to  him  would  she  be. 

And  she  wrought  strangeness  between 
him  and  the  women  he  knew,  the  great 
grave  lady  with  the  large,  pale  mouth,  her 
that  was  of  his  mind,  and  the  little  black 
cloak-maker  with  the  eager,  red  mouth, 
her  that  was  closer  than  mind  or  heart  to 
him.  So  that  the  first  found  fault  with  his 
poetry. 

"I  do  n't  know  what 's  come  over  you, 
Marco  Polo," — and  there  was  a  touch 
of  temper  in  her  voice, — "but  these  poems 
of  yours  show  me  you  have  n't  your  mind 
on  your  subject.  Would  you  mind  telling 
me  when  I  had  bound  black  hair?"  she 
says.  "And  you  say  my  bosom  is  like  two 
little  russet  apples.  Now,  a  regular  poet 
once  compared  It  to  two  great  silver  cups, 
and  that  was  a  good  comparison,  though 


52  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


in  truth,"  she  says,  "he  knew  as  little  about 
it  as  you.  And  my  hands  are  not  like 
soft  Eastern  flowers.  They're  like  lilies. 
I  don't  know  where  you  do  be  getting  these 
Eastern  comparisons,"  she  says.  "But  I 
do  n't  like  them.  Tell  me,  pretty  boy," — 
she  looks  suspicious, — "you  have  n't  been 
taking  any  of  the  strange  Egyptian  drugs 
the  dark  people  do  be  selling  in  the  dim 
shops  on  the  quiet  canals?  Look  out, 
pretty  boy !  look  out  1" 

And  the  little  cloak-maker  grumbled 
when  he  was  gone.  "I  don't  know  what 's 
wrong  with  him,"  says  she.  "Or  maybe 
it 's  something  that 's  wrong  with  myself, 
but  this  delicate  love  is  n't  a'l  it 's  cracked 
up  to  be.  It 's  all  right  in  books,"  she 
says,  "and  it 's  a  grand  sight,  and  the  play- 
ers doing  it;  but  I  like  a  hug,"  she  says, 
"would  put  the  breath  out  of  you;  and  a 
kiss,"  she  says,  "you  could  feel  in  the  soles 
of  your  feet."  And  she  lay  awake  and 
grumbled!    "Let  him  be  taking  his  la-di-da 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  53 


courting  to  those  as  favor  it,"  says  she. 
"It 's  not  my  kind,"  and  she  grumbled 
through  the  lonely  night.  "I  wonder 
where  my  husband  is  now,"  she  said.  "And 
was  n't  I  the  foolish  girl  to  be  sending 
him  off!  Sure,  he  drank  like  a  fish  and 
beat  me  something  cruel,  but  he  was  a 
rare  lover,  and  the  mood  on  him.  Sure, 
a  woman  never  knows  when  she  's  well 
off,"  says  she. 

And  Marco  Polo  did  n't  miss  them  any 
more  nor  you  'd  miss  an  old  overcoat  and 
the  winter  past.  All  his  mind  was  on 
was  the  Golden  Bells  of  China.  And  he 
thought  long  until  his  uncle  and  father 
came,  so  that  he  could  be  off  with  them 
to  the  strange  Chinese  land. 

"But  there  's  no  use  to  me  going 
there,"  says  he.  "I  couldn't  marry  her. 
She  would  laugh  at  me,"  he  says.  "She, 
who  refused  the  son  of  the  King  of  Siam, 
with  his  hundred  princes  on  a  hundred 
elephants,  what  use  would  she  have  for 


54  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

me,  who  's  no  better  nor  a  pedler  with  his 
pack?  But  it  would  be  worth  walking  the 
world  barefoot  for  to  see  that  little  gol- 
den face,  to  hear  the  low,  sweet  voice  they 
call  Golden  Bells." 

They  came  back  in  due  time,  his  uncle 
Matthew,  the  red,  hairy  man,  and  his 
father,  the  thin,  dark  man,  who  knew  pre- 
cious stones.  And  he  told  them  he  wanted 
to  go  with  them  when  they  made  their 
next  expedition  to  China. 

"We  could  be  using  you,  after  your 
training  in  trade,"  says  the  father.  But 
Marco  Polo  would  take  no  interest  in 
barter.  "Sure,  you  'd  better  come  along," 
says  his  uncle  Matthew.  "There  's  great 
sport  to  be  had  on  the  road,  kissing  and 
courting  the  foreign  women  and  not  a 
word  of  language  between  you,  barring  a 
smile  and  a  laugh." 

"I  have  no  interest  in  the  foreign  wo- 
men, Uncle  Matthew." 

"Then  it 's  the  horses  you  Ve  been  hear- 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  55 

ing  about,  the  fine  Arab  horses  faster  nor 
the  wind,  and  the  little  Persian  ponies 
they  do  be  playing  polo  on,  and  the  grand 
Tatar  hunters  that  can  jump  the  heighth  of 
a  man,  and  they  sure-footed  as  a  goat.  Ah, 
the  horses,  the  bonny  horses  !" 

"Ah,  sure,  Uncle  Matthew,  't  is  little 
I  know  of  horses.  Sure,  I  know  all  about 
boats,  racing  and  trade  and  war  boats, 
but  a  horse  is  not  kin  to  me." 

"Then  what  the  hell 's  the  use  of  your 
going  to  China?" 

"Ah,  sure,  that 's  the  question  I'm  ask- 
ing myself.  Uncle  Matthew.  But  I  have 
to  go.  I  do  so.  There  is  something  call- 
ing me,  Uncle  Matthew — a  bell  in  my  ear, 
father's  brother,  and  there  's  a  ringing 
bell  in  my  heart." 


VI 

I  SHALL  now  tell  you  how  it  came 
about  that  Marco  Polo  went  to  China 
with  his  uncle  and  father,  though  he  had 
no  eye  for  a  bargain,  or  interest  in  court- 
ing foreign  women,  or  sense  of  horses. 

Now,  as  you  may  know,  this  was  a  great 
religious  time.  The  Crusaders,  feeling 
shame  that  the  Sepulchre  of  the  Lord  Je- 
sus should  be  in  Saracen  hands,  had  come 
with  horse,  foot  and  artillery  to  Palestine 
to  give  tribute  of  arms  to  Him  who  had 
died  for  them  on  the  Bitter  Tree.  And 
great  feats  were  performed  and  grand 
battles  won.  And  kings  became  saints, 
like  Louis  of  France,  and  saints  became 
kings,  like  Baldwin  of  Constantinople. 
Mighty  wonders  were  seen  and  miracles 

performed,    so   that  people   said,   "Now 

56 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  57 

will  be  the  second  coming  of  Christ  and 
the  end  of  the  world." 

And  a  great  desire  came  on  the  Chris- 
tian people  to  tell  the  truth  of  Christ  to 
the  strange  and  foreign  peoples  of  the 
world.  So  that  every  day  out  of  Jerusa- 
lem you  would  see  friars  hitting  the  road, 
some  of  them  to  confront  the  wizards  of 
the  Land  of  Darkness,  and  some  to  argue 
theology  with  the  old  lamas  of  Tibet,  and 
some  to  convert  the  sunny  Southern 
islands,  where  the  young  women  do  be 
letting  down  their  hair  and  the  men  do 
be  forgetting  God  for  them.  And  all  over 
the  world  there  was  spreading  a  great 
rumor  that  the  truth  of  all  things  was  at 
last  known. 

Even  Kubla  Khan  had  heard  of  it  far 
oft  in  China,  and  he  had  charged  the  uncle 
and  father  of  Marco  with  a  message  to 
the  Pope  of  Rome.  Let  the  pope  be  send- 
ing some  theologians  to  his  court,  and 
they  'd  argue  the  matter  out;  and  if  he  was 


58  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

satisfied  that  this  new  religion  was  the 
True  Religion,  then  he  'd  turn  Christian 
and  tell  his  people  to  turn  Christian,  too. 
And  let  them  be  bringing  back  some  of  the 
Oil  of  the  Lamp  which  burns  in  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem  and  is  a  cure  for 
all  the  ills  in  the  world. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  City  of 
Acre,  sure  the  pope  was  dead.  And  they 
waited  a  long  time,  but  no  new  pope  was 
chosen,  so  they  decided  to  go  back,  be- 
cause they  had  a  good  business  there,  and 
they  did  n't  want  to  lose  it.  And  yet  they 
knew  there  'd  be  trouble  with  the  Grand 
Khan,  if  they  did  n't  bring  back  the  news 
of  the  True  Religion  and  people  to  argue 
it. 

"I  've  been  a  long  time  trading,"  says 
Nicolo,  "and  it 's  a  queer  thing,  but  the 
more  trading  you  do,  the  less  religion  you 
have.  The  arguing  of  religion  would  not 
come  easy  to  me.    And  I  'd  be  up  against 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  59 

experts.  I  'm  not  the  man  for  it,"  says 
he.     "How  about  you,  Matthew?" 

"Oh,  sure,  they  'd  never  listen  to  me," 
Matthew  laughs — "me  that 's  drank  with 
them,  and  deludhered  their  women,  and 
gambled  until  I  left  them  nothing  but  the 
sweat  of  their  brows.  I  'd  be  a  great  one 
to  preach  religion  to  them.  Why,  man, 
they  'd  laugh  at  me.  But  I  tell  you  what, 
Nicolas.  There  's  a  bishop  in  Negropont, 
and  I  know  where  he  lives,  and  I  know 
his  house  and  everything.  What  do  you 
say,  Nicolas?  We'll  just  throw  a  bag 
over  his  head  and  tie  him  on  a  horse.  Oh, 
sure,  he  'd  give  grand  discourses  to  the 
Great  Khan!" 

"Have  sense,  Matthew;  have  sense. 
You  're  always  too  rough;  always  ready  to 
end  an  argument  with  a  knife,  or  just  lift 
what  you  want.  Have  sense,  man;  you 
can  't  kidnap  a  bishop  like  you  'd  kidnap 
a  woman." 

"Well,  I  do  n't  see  why  not,"  says  Mat- 


6o  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

thew.     "It  would  be  easier,  too,  l)ecause  a 
woman  will  scratch  like  a  wildcat.     But 
if  you  're  set  against  it,  I  won't  do  it,' 
he  says.     "Well,  then,  how  about  young 
Marco?" 

"My  sound  man  Matthew !  my  bully  fel- 
low! Sure  you  were  never  at  a  loss  yet! 
Young  Marco  it  is;  sure,  't  is  the  elegant 
idea.  There  's  not  a  man  born  of  woman 
better  for  the  job." 

Now,  all  the  Christian  world  had  gone 
religious,  and  young  Marco  was  no  excep- 
tion; for  't  is  not  only  the  old  that  are  reli- 
gious. The  young  are,  too ;  but  there  's 
a  difference.  The  religion  of  old  men  is 
reason  and  translation;  the  religion  of  the 
young  is  just  a  burning  cloud.  The  Tra- 
gedy of  the  Bitter  Tree  is  not  a  symbol  to 
them,  but  a  reality,  and  their  tears  are  not 
of  the  spirit,  but  of  the  body,  too. 

And  there  are  no  half-way  houses,  no 
compromises,  in  a  young  man's  creed.  It  *s 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  6i 

swallow  all,  or  be  damned  to  you.     It 's 
believe  or  be  lost. 

And  thinking  over  the  little  girl  in  the 
Chinese  garden,  there  had  come  into  Mar- 
co's heart,  a  thought  past  enduring.  If 
little  Golden  Bells  did  not  believe,  then 
little  Golden  Bells  was  lost.  She  might 
have  everything  in  this  world,  in  this  life, 
an  emperor  for  a  father,  kings  for  suitors, 
a  great  poet  for  a  minstrel,  a  wizard  for 
an  entertainer;  but  once  the  little  blue 
shadow  left  her  body,  she  was  lost  forever. 
And  the  sight  came  to  him  of  little  Golden 
Bells  going  down  the  dim  and  lonely  alleys 
of  death,  and  weeping,  weeping,  weeping 
.  .  .  Her  eyes  would  be  shot  with  panic, 
and  the  little  mouth  twisted,  and  the  little 
flowery  hands  twitching  at  each  other. 
And  it  would  be  cold  there  for  her  who 
was  so  warm,  and  it  would  be  dark  there 
for  her  who  loved  light,  and  the  Golden 
Bells  of  her  voice  would  be  lost  in  the 
whistling  and  clanging  of  the  stars  as  they 


62  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

swung  by  in  their  orbits.  He  to  be  in  the 
great  delight  of  paradise,  and  she  to  be  in 
the  blue-gray  maze  between  the  worlds 
— what  tragedy! 

Kings  might  bring  her  presents,  a  hus- 
band might  bring  her  happiness;  but  if  he 
could  only  bring  her  salvation  I  If  he 
could  only  tell  her  of  the  Bitter  Tree  1 

The  body,  when  you  came  to  think,  of 
It,  mattered  little.  All  the  beauty  in  the 
world  could  not  endure  more  than  its  ap- 
pointed span.  Helen  was  dust  now,  and 
Deirdre  nothing.  What  had  become  of 
the  beauty  of  Semiramis,  Alexander's 
darling;  and  Cleopatra,  who  loved  the 
great  proconsul;  and  Bathsheba,  for  whom 
David  of  the  Psalms  fell  from  grape? 
And  Balkis,  queen  of  Sheba,  with  her  apes, 
Ivory,  and  peacocks?  Dust  and  ashes, 
dust  and  ashesi  And  Scheherazade  was 
but  a  strange,  sad  sound.  Beauty  in- 
creased and  waned  like  the  moon.  A  little 
shadow  around  the  eyes,  a  little  crinkle  in 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  63 

the  neck,  the  backs  of  the  hands  stiffening 
like  parchment.  Dust  and  ashes,  dust  and 
ashes  I 

But  the  little  blue  shadow  would  glow 
like  an  Easter  morning. 

Or  it  would  be  a  poor,  lonely,  unlit  sha- 
dow in  the  cold  gloom  of  the  clanging 
worlds. 

Poor  Golden  Bells!  Poor  little  weep- 
ing Golden  Bells!  If  he  could  only  telt 
her  about  the  Bitter  Tree! 

And  then  what  happens  but  his  uncle 
Matthew  claps  him  on  the  back. 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  to  China, 
Marco  Markeen,"  says  he,  "and  preach 
religion  to  the  benighted  people !" 

"How  did  you  know,  Uncle  Matthew?'* 

"How  did  I  know  what?" 

"That  I  wanted  to  go  to  China  and 
preach  religion  to  the — the  people!" 

"Well,  If  that  does  n't  beat  Banagher  " 
says  Matthew  Polo,  "and  Banagher  beats 


64  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

the  devil  I     Tell  me,  did  you  ever  hear  an 
old  tune  called  'Bundle  and  Go!'?" 

And  so  the  three  of  them  leave  upon 
their  journey,  but  at  Layas,  where  the 
|Cing  of  Armenia  had  his  castle,  they 
heard  of  the  election  of  a  new  pope,  so 
they  came  back  to  Acre  to  get  his  Instruc- 
tions and  blessing. 


VII 

THE  pope  said  a  grand  mass  for  them, 
and  at  the  gospel  he  enters  the  pul- 
pit, a  burly  figure  of  a  man  with  sad  eyes. 

"The  blessing  of  the  Father  and  the 
Son  and  the  Holy  Ghost  be  with  you  and 
about  you,  Amen. 

"It  is  not  to  you,  Nicolo  Polo,  that  I 
wish  to  speak,  nor  to  you,  Matthew  Polo, 
for  neither  of  you  are  my  ambassadors  to 
the  Great  Khan,  Merchant  and  sports- 
man, I  honor  you,  and  you  have  my  bless- 
ing, but  you  have  no  hopes  of  mine.  The 
dirty  diversions  of  the  world  are  between 
your  eyes  and  glory,"  said  he,  "It 's  only 
myself,  an  old  and  sorrowful  man,  and 
this  child,  a  young  and  hopeful  one,  can 
understand;  old  men  having  sight  of  vi- 
sions, and  young  men  dreaming  dreams  .  .  . 

"Now  in  the  matter  of  converting  the 

65 


66  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

^*— ^—^^^^^~^^'^~—^^^^^^^^— — — "~^-™^'^— *— ^ 

Great  Khan  and  his  numerous  millions^ 
first  let  wisdom  speak.  I  have  little  hopes. 
He  wants  to  be  argued  into  it,  you  see.  Re- 
ligion is  not  a  matter  of  argument.  It  is 
a  wisdom  that  surpasses  wisdom.  It 
drifts  in  men's  souls  as  the  foggy  dew 
comes  unbidden  to  the  trees.  It  is  born, 
before  our  soul,  as  the  horned  moon  is 
born  before  our  eyes. 

"And  now,  my  child,  you  might  say, 
'What  is  the  use  of  sending  me  to  China 
if  he  knows  I  cannot  bring  these  millions 
into  the  fold?'  My  dear  son,  there  is  the 
wisdom  surpassing  wisdom.  A  great  and 
noble  thought  must  not  die.  Things  of 
the  spirit  we  cannot  reckon  as  a  husband- 
man reckons  his  crops.  There  is  a  folk  on 
the  marches  of  Europe,  and  they  are  ever 
going  into  battle,  and  they  always  fall.. 
Their  results  are  nothing.  But  their  name 
and  their  glory  wIL  endure  forever  .    .    . 

"My  dear  son,  God  has  put  wisdom  in 
my  head  and  beauty  into  yours.     Wisdom 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  67 


is  needed  for  the  governance  of  this  world, 
but  beauty  is  needed  for  its  existence.  In 
arid  deserts  there  is  no  life.  Birds  do 
not  sing  in  the  dark  of  night.  Show  me  a 
waste  country,  and  I  '11  show  you  a  brutal 
people.  No  faith  can  live  that  is  not  beau- 
tiful .  .  . 

"The  beauty  God  has  put  in  your 
heart,  child,  you  must  always  keep  .  .  . 
How  much  I  think  of  it  I  '11  tell  you.  I  'm 
an  old  man  now,  an  old  and  broken  man, 
and  in  a  few  years  I  '11  stand  before  my 
Master. 

"  'What  have  you  seen  on  my  earth,* 
He  '11  ask  me,  'you  who  followed  St.. 
Peter  r 

"  'Lord!  Lord!'  I  '11  tell  Him,  'I've 
seen  mighty  things.  I  've  seen  the  bride- 
groom leave  his  bride  and  the  king  his 
kingdom,  the  huckster  leave  his  booth, 
and  the  reaper  drop  his  hook,  that  they 
might  rescue  Your  Holy  Sepulchre  from 
pagan  hands.' 


68  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


'And  anything  else  ?'  He  '11  ask. 
'And  I  've  seen  a  young  man  go  out 
into  the  desert  and  over  his  head  was  a 
star.   .  .' 

"You  may  think  you  have  failed,  child, 
but  remember  that  in  the  coming  times 
your  name  and  fame  will  awaken  beauty, 
and  many  's  the  traveler  on  the  hard  road 
will  find  his  courage  again,  and  he  think- 
ing of  Marco  Polo.  And  many 's  the 
young  man  will  dream  dreams,  and  many  's 
the  old  man  will  see  visions,  and  they  read- 
ing the  book  by  the  golden  candle-light; 
and  many  's  the  young  girl  will  give  you 
love,  and  you  dead  for  centuries.  But 
for  this  you  must  keep  your  dream. 

"Now  you  '11  think  it 's  the  queer  pope 
I  am  to  be  telling  you  things  like  this  in- 
stead of  demanding  converts.  But  the 
wisdom  that  surpasses  wisdom  comes  to 
you  with  the  Anointing  of  the  Oil.  'I 
knew  a  man  in  Christ  above  fourteen  years 
ago,'  writes  Saint  Paul,  '(whether  in  the 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  69 


body  I  cannot  tell,  or  whether  out  of  the 
body  I  cannot  tell.     God  knoweth.)' 

"  'How  that  he  was  caught  up  Into  para- 
dise, and  heard  unspeakable  words,  which 
is  not  lawful  for  a  man  to  utter.' 

"Now  you  see  there  Is  a  wisdom  sur- 
passing wisdom,  and  It  Is  out  of  this  fount 
of  wisdom  I  am  drawing  when  I  speak  to 
you  these  words. 

"Child,  I  will  not  keep  you  any  longer. 
Only  to  say  this,  and  this  Is  the  chlefest 
thing:  never  let  your  dream  be  taken  from 
you.  Keep  It  unspotted  from  the  world. 
In  darkness  and  In  tribulation  It  will  go 
with  you  as  a  friend;  but  In  wealth  and 
power  hold  fast  to  It,  for  then  Is  danger. 
Let  not  the  mists  of  the  world,  the  gay 
diversions,  the  little  trifles,  draw  you  from 
glory. 

"Remember  I 

''Si  ohlittis  fiiero  tui  Jerusalem, — If  I 
forget  thee,  O  Jerusalem, — 


70  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

^— ^^  — ^^ 

"Oblivioni  detur  dextera  mea, — let  my 
right  hand  forget  her  cunning — 

^'Adhaereat  lingua  mea  faucibus  meis,  si 
non  meminero  tui, — if  I  do  not  remember 
thee,  let  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of 
my  mouth — 

'*Si  non  proposuero  Jerusalem,  in  prin- 
cipis  laetitia  meae, — if  I  prefer  not  Jeru- 
salem above  my  chief  joy. 

"I  shall  now  send  a  prayer  to  Heaven," 
he  said,  "to  keep  you  safe  in  the  strange 
foreign  ways,  to  protect  you  against  wind 
and  tempest,  against  pestilence  and  sud- 
den death,  against  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness, and  Him  who  goes  up  and  down 
the  world  for  the  ruin  of  souls." 

And  he  turned  to  the  high  altar  again, 
and  now  you  M  hear  his  voice  loud  and 
powerful,  and  now  low  and  secret,  and 
the  bell  struck,  and  the  acolyte  intoned 
the  responses,  and  all  of  a  sudden  he 
turned  and  spread  forth  his  hands. 

''Ite!     Let  you  go  now.     Miss  a  est." 


VIII 

AND  so  they  set  forth  with  their  great 
train  of  red,  snarling  camels  and 
little  patient  donkeys  and  slender,  nervous 
horses  toward  the  rising  sun.  Behind 
them  the  green  hills  of  Palestine  died  out 
as  a  rainbow  dies  out,  and  now  there  was 
sand  before  them  and  now  bleak  moun- 
tains, and  by  day  the  wind  was  swift  and 
hot  and  by  night  it  was  black  and  cold. 
And  moons  were  born  and  died   .    .    . 

And  they  passed  through  the  land  of 
the  King  of  Armenia,  and  they  passed 
Ararat,  the  mountain  where  Noe  brought 
his  ark  to  anchor,  and  where  it  still  is, 
and  where  it  can  be  seen  still,  but  cannot 
be  reached,  so  cold  and  high  and  terrible 
is  that  mountain. 

And  they  passed  ruined  Babel,  that  was 
built   of   Nimrod,    the   first   king   of   the 

71 


72  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

\  '■'  m 

world,  and  now  is  desolation.  They  passed 
it  on  a  waning  moon.  And  out  of  the  ruins 
the  dragons  came  and  hissed  at  them,  and 
strange,  obscene  birds  flapped  their  wings 
in  the  air  and  cawed  and  pecked  at  them, 
and  over  the  desert  the  satyr  called  unto 
her  mate.  .  . 

And  they  passed  through  the  Kingdom 
of  Georgia,  whose  kings  are  born  with 
the  mark  of  an  eagle  on  their  right 
shoulder.  They  passed  through  Persia, 
where  the  magicians  worship  fire.  And 
they  passed  through  the  city  of  Saba, 
where  sleep  the  three  magi  who  came  to 
worship  at  Bethlehem,  and  their  names 
were  Kaspar,  Balthasar,  and  Melchior. 

And  they  passed  through  Camadi,  where 
great  ruins  are  and  robbers  roam  through 
the  magical  darkness.  And  they  passed 
northward  of  the  Perilous  Valley,  where 
the  Devil's  Head  is  in  black  stone,  and 
that  is  one  of  the  nine  entrances  to  hell; 
and  passed  the  Valley  of  the  Cockadrills, 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  73 

where  there  are  serpents  five  fathoms  in 
length;  and  passed  the  Valley  of  Cruel 
Women,  who  have  precious  stones  in 
place  of  eyes  .  .  . 

And  they  went  through  the  Dismal 
Desert,  where  no  stream  sang   .    .    . 

And  in  the  desert  they  passed  the  Trees 
of  the  Sun  and  Moon,  which  speak  with 
the  voices  of  men.  And  it  was  from  the 
Speaking  Tree  that  Alexander  heard  of 
his  death.  And  it  was  near  there  that 
he  and  Darius  fought.  And  they  passed 
the  Arhre  Sec,  the  Dry  Tree,  which  has 
a  green  bark  on  one  side  and  white  on  the 
other,  and  there  are  no  trees  within  a 
hundred  miles  of  that  tree,  and  It  is 
sprung  from  the  staff  of  Adam. 

And  they  passed  through  Balkh,  the 
Mother  of  Cities.  And  they  passed 
through  Taihan,  where  the  great  salt 
mountains  are.  And  they  passed  through 
Badashan,  where  the  mountains  of  the 
rubies    are.      And    they    passed    through 


^4  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

Kashmir,  whose  women  are  very  beauti- 
ful, and  whose  magicians  weave  the 
strongest  spells  in  the  world  .   .   . 

And  moons  were  born  and  died  .    .    . 

And  they  came  to  Alamoot,  the  fortress 
of  Senex  de  Monte,  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain,  the  King  of  the  Assasins,  the 
greatest  wizard  of  all  time  .    .    . 

Now  this  is  the  tale  of  the  Old  Man  of 
the  Mountain. 

Whenever  within  his  dominions  there 
was  a  fine  young  horseman,  the  Old  Man 
would  put  a  spell  on  him  and  draw  him 
to  the  Castle  of  Alamoot,  and  outside  of 
the  castle  sleep  would  come  on  him.  And 
when  he  woke  up,  he  would  be  inside  the 
castle,  in  the  wonderful  gardens.  And 
they  'd  tell  him  he  was  dead  and  In  para- 
dise. And  paradise  it  would  be  for  him, 
what  with  the  lovely  women  and  the  great 
playing  on  the  flutes,  the  birds  singing, 
and  the  sun  shining,  the  crystal  rivers  and 
the  flowers  of  the  world.     And  after  a 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  75 


while  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
would  call  for  him,  and  tell  him  he  was 
sending  him  back  on  earth  again  on  a 
mission  to  punish  Such-and-Such.  And  the 
Old  Man  would  put  sleep  on  him  and  a 
knife  in  his  hand,  and  when  he  woke  he 
would  be  outside  the  Castle  of  Alamoot. 
And  he  would  start  on  his  mission.  And 
when  he  came  back  he  would  be  read- 
mitted to  paradise.  And  if  he  did  n't 
come  back,  there  were  others  to  take  his 
place. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  always 
kept  one  hundred  and  one  assasins  and 
four  hundred  and  four  women  to  tend 
them. 

Now  when  the  caravan  of  the  Polos 
had  come  to  rest  for  the  day,  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountain  put  out  white,  not 
black  magic,  and  he  drew  Marco  Polo  to 
the  castle  as  a  magnet  draws  a  needle. 
And  Marco  Polo  galloped  up  to  the  Castle 
in  the  waning  moon,  and  the  Old  Man 


76  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


looked  down  on  him  from  the  battlements 
and  stroked  his  long  white  beard. 

"Do  you  know  me,  Marco  Polo?" 

"I  know  you  and  I  have  no  fear  of  you, 
Old  Man  of  the  Mountain." 

"And  why  have  you  no  fear  of  me, 
Marco  Polo?" 

"Because  the  cross  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
is  between  me  and  harm.  Because  it  pro- 
tects me  night  and  day." 

"I  know  Eesa  ben-Miriam,"  said  the 
Old  Man.  "He  was  a  great  prophet. 
But  whether  he  would  have  protected  you 
from  me,  we  will  differ  about  that.  I  've 
often  thought  of  you,  Marco  Polo,  and 
you  coming  this  way.  I  could  have  used 
you  in  my  work  of  keeping  the  kings  and 
chieftains  of  the  world  in  fear  and  sub- 
jection." 

"Then  why  am  n't  I  in  your  garden, 
Old  Man  of  the  Mountain?" 

"The  four  most  beautiful  women  in  the 
world  are  in  my  garden.    There  is  a  tall, 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  77 

black-haired  woman,  and  she  Is  fairer  and 
more  adroit  than  Llllth,  who  was  before 
Eve;  and  there  Is  a  tall,  blond  woman, 
and  she  Is  like  a  queen;  and  there  Is  a 
slim,  copper-colored  woman,  and  she  Is 
like  an  Idol  In  a  shrine;  and  there  Is  a  little 
brown-haired  woman,  and  she  Is  Tike  a 
child.  But  none  of  those  women  could 
make  you  believe  you  were  In  paradise 
while  there  's  a  face  in  your  heart.  Not 
the  cross  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Is  between  you 
and  me,  but  the  face  of  little  Golden  Bells 
of  China." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  China  to  woo 
Golden  Bells,  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain. 
I  am  going  to  convert  the  men  of  Ca- 
thay." 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  laughed 
and  stroked  his  beard. 

"You  had  a  sermon  from  Gregory  be- 
before  you  came  away.  Did  he  tell  you 
you  were  to  convert  the  men  of  Cathay?" 

"He  did  not." 


78  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

"Ah,  Gregory's  a  sound  man.  He  knew 
you  can  't  make  saints  in  a  day.  Why, 
child,  I  Ve  seen  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  and  I  've  seen  the  end  of  It.  I  've 
seen  the  beginning  in  a  crystal  glass,  and 
I  've  seen  the  end  in  a  pool  of  ink  in  a 
slave's  hand.  I  've  seen  mankind  begin 
lower  nor  the  gibbering  ape,  and  I  've  seen 
them  end  the  shining  sons  of  God.  Mil- 
lions on  millions  on  millions  of  years,  mul- 
tiplied unto  dizziness,  crawling,  infini- 
tesimal work  overcoming  nature,  overcom- 
ing themselves,  overcoming  the  princes  of 
the  powers  of  darkness,  one  of  whom  I  am. 
But  this  is  too  deep  for  you,  Marco  Polo. 

"Now  you  can  go  on  your  way  without 
hindrance  from  me,  Marco  Polo,  because 
of  the  memory  of  an  old  time,  when  the 
courting  of  a  woman  was  more  to  me  than 
the  killing  of  a  man,  when  beauty  meant 
more  nor  power. 

"Let  you  be  on  your  way,  Marco  Polo, 
while  I  sit  here  a  lonely  old  man,  with  wee 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  79 

soft  ghosts  whispering  to  him.  Let  you 
be  hastening  on  your  way  before  I  remem- 
ber I  am  a  prince  of  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness and  should  do  you  harm  ..." 


IX 

AND  so  they  went  on  eastward,  ever 
eastward,  and  the  moons  were  born, 
grew,  waned,  and  died  .    .    . 

They  passed  through  Khotan,  where 
the  divers  bring  up  jade  from  the  rivers, 
white  jade  and  black  jade,  and  green  jade 
veined  with  gold.  They  passed  through 
Camal,  the  shameful  city,  whose  women 
are  fair  and  wanton,  whose  men  are  cuck- 
olds. And  they  passed  through  the  prov- 
ince of  Chitingolos,  where  are  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Salamanders.  They  passed 
through  the  city  of  Campicha,  where 
there  are  more  idols  than  men.  And  they 
passed  through  the  great  city  of  Samar- 
kand, where  the  Green  Stone  is  on  which 
Timur's  throne  was  set  .  .  .  And  moons 
were  born  and  died  .    .   . 

They   passed   through   Tangut,   where 

80 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  8i 

the  men  will  not  carry  the  dead  out 
through  the  door  of  a  house,  but  must 
break,  a  hole  in  the  wall.  And  they  passed 
through  Kialehta,  where  there  are  snow- 
white  camels.  And  they  passed  through 
the  lands  of  Prester  John. 

And  now  they  were  in  the  Tatar  lands. 
There  passed  them  lowing  musk  oxen. 
There  passed  them  the  wild  asses  of  Mon- 
golia. There  passed  them  the  barbarians, 
with  their  great  tents  on  wheels.  There 
passed  them  the  black-jowled,  savage 
idolaters.  There  passed  them  the  pretty 
white-faced  women.  There  passed  them 
huge,  abominable  dogs. 

And  they  came  to  the  town  of  Lob,  and 
a  new  moon  arose,  and  they  entered  the 
Desert  of  the  Singing  Sands. 


WHEREVER  they  went  now  was 
sand,  and  a  dull  haze  that  made 
the  sun  look  like  a  copper  coin.  And  a 
great  silence  fell  on  the  caravan,  and  noth- 
ing was  heard  but  the  crunch  of  the 
camels'  pads  and  the  tinkle  of  the  camels' 
bells.     And  no  green  thing  was  seen. 

And  a  great  terror  fell  on  the  caravan, 
so  that  one  night  a  third  of  the  caravan 
deserted.  The  rest  went  on  in  silence 
under  the  dull  sun.  And  now  they  came 
across  a  village  of  white  skeletons  grin- 
ning in  the  silent  sand.  And  at  night  there 
was  nothing  heard,  not  even  the  barking 
of  a  dog.  And  others  of  the  caravan  de- 
serted, and  others  were  lost. 

And  now  they  had  come  so  far  into  the 
desert  that  they  could  not  return,  but  must 
keep  on  their  way,  and  on  the  fifth  day 

82 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  83 

they  came  to  the  Hill  o2  the  Drum.  And 
all  through  the  night  they  could  not  sleep 
for  the  booming  of  the  Drum.  And  some 
of  the  caravan  went  mad  there,  and  fled 
screaming  into  the  waste. 

And  now  there  was  only  a  great  haze 
about  them,  and  they  looked  at  one  an- 
other with  terror,  saying;  "Were  we  ever 
any  place  where  green  was,  where  birds 
sang,  or  there  was  sweet  water?  Or  may- 
be we  are  dead.  Or  maybe  this  was  all 
our  life,  and  the  pleasant  towns,  and  the 
lamplight  in  the  villages,  and  the  apricots 
in  the  garden,  and  our  wives  and  children, 
maybe  they  were  all  a  dream  that  we  woke 
in  the  middle  of.  Let  us  lie  down  and 
sleep  that  we  may  dream  again." 

But  Marco  Polo  would  not  let  them  lie 
down,  for  to  lie  down  was  death.  But  he 
drove  them  onward.  And  again  they 
complained:  "Surely  God  never  saw  this 
place  that  He  left  it  so  terrible.  Surely 
He  was  never  here.    He  was  never  here«" 


84  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

And  now  that  their  minds  were  pitched 
to  the  heighth  of  madness,  the  warlocks 
of  the  desert  took  shape  and  jeered  at 
them,  and  the  white-sheeted  ghosts  flitted 
alongside  of  them,  and  the  goblins  of  the 
Gobi  harried  them  from  behind.  And  the 
sun  was  like  dull  copper  through  the  haze, 
and  the  moon  like  a  guttering  candle,  and 
stars  there  were  none. 

And  when  the  moon  was  at  its  full, 
they  came  to  the  Hill  of  the  Bell.  And 
through  the  night  the  Bell  went  gongh, 
gongh,  gongh,  until  they  could  feel  it  in 
every  fiber  of  their  bodies,  and  their  skin 
itched  with  it.  They  would  stop  their 
ears.  But  they  would  hear  it  in  the  palms 
of  their  hands  and  the  soles  of  their  feet. 
Gongh,  gongh,  gongh. 

And  when  they  left  the  Hill  of  the  Bell 
there  were  only  six  of  the  caravan  left, 
and  a  multitude  of  white-sheeted  ghosts. 
And  the  caravan  plodded  onward  dully. 
And   now    the    warlocks    of    the    desert 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  85 


played  another  cruelty.  Afar  off  they 
would  put  a  seeming  of  a  lake,  and  the 
travelers  would  press  on  gladly,  crying, 
"There  is  water !  water !  God  lives  !  God 
lives!"  But  there  was  only  sand.  And 
now  it  would  be  a  green  vision,  and  they 
would  cry:  "We  have  come  to  the  edge  of 
the  desert.  After  the  long  night,  dawn. 
God  lives!  God  lives!"  But  there  would 
be  only  sand,  sand.  And  now  it  would  be 
a  city  of  shining  domes  in  the  distance. 
And  they  would  nudge  one  another  and 
croak,  "There  are  men  there,  brother,  se- 
cure streets,  and  merchants  in  their 
booths;  people  to  talk  with,  and  water  for 
our  poor  throats."  But  there  would  be 
only  sand,  sand,  sand  .  .  .  And  they 
would  cry  like  children.  "God  is  dead! 
Haven't  you  heard?  Don't  you  know? 
God  is  dead  in  His  heaven,  and  the  war- 
locks are  loosed  on  the  land!" 

And  on  the  last  day  of  the  moon  they 
were  all  but  in  sight  of  the  desert's  edge, 


86  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

though  they  did  n't  know.  And  the  gob- 
lins and  the  warlocks  took  counsel,  for 
they  were  now  afraid  Marco  and  his  tew 
people  would  escape.  They  gathered  to- 
gether and  they  read  the  runes  of  the 
Flowing  Sand. 

And  suddenly  the  camels  rushed 
screaming  into  the  desert  with  sudden 
panic,  and  a  burning  wind  came,  and  the 
sands  rose,  and  the  desert  heeled  like  a 
ship,  and  the  day  became  night. 

And  young  Marco  Polo  could  stand  no 
more.  That  was  the  end,  the  end  of  him, 
the  end  of  the  world,  the  end  of  every- 
thing. There  was  red  darkness  every* 
where,  and  he  could  see  nobody.  "O  my 
Lord  Jesus!"  he  cried.  "O  little  Golden 
Bells!"  The  wind  boomed  like  an  organ. 
The  sand  screamed.  "O  my  Lord  Jesus! 
O  little  Golden  Bells!"  And  the  voices 
of  his  father  and  uncle  were  like  the  tweet- 
ing birds.  "Where  's  the  lad,  Matthew? 
Where's    our    lad?"       "Mark,     Mark, 


S'ja- 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  87 


where  have  you  got  to?  Lad  of  our 
heart,  where  are  you?"  But  they  could  n't 
find  each  other.  The  sand  buffeted  them 
like  shuttlecocks.  "Boy  Mark!"  The 
sand  snarled  like  a  dog;  the  wind  ham- 
mered like  drums.  "Oh,  Golden  Bells! 
O,  little  Golden  Bells !  O,  my  Lord  Jesus, 
must  it  end  here?" 

And  the  fight  went  out  of  him,  and  a 
big  sob  broke  in  him,  and  he  lay  down 
to  die  «  s  > 


I 


XI 

SHALL  now  tell  you  of  Golden  Bells, 
and  her  in  the  Chinese  Garden. 


88 


XII 

I  WOULD  have  you  now  see  her  as  I  see 
her,  standing  before  LI  Po,  the  great 
poet,  in  her  green  costume.  And  Li  Po, 
big,  fat,  with  sad  eyes  and  a  twisted  mouth, 
uncomfortable  as  be  damned.  The  sun 
shone  in  the  garden,  the  butterflies,  the 
red  and  black  and  golden  butterflies, 
flitted  from  blossom  to  blossom.  And  the 
bees  droned.  And  on  the  banks  of  the 
green  lake  the  kingfisher  tunneled  his  wee 
house,  and  the  wind  shook  the  blossoms 
of  the  apple-trees.  And  Li  Po  sat  on  the 
marble  slab  and  was  very  uncomfortable. 
And  in  a  dark  bower  was  Sanang,  the 
magician,  brooding  like  an  owl.  And 
Golden  Bells  stood  before  Li  Po,  and 
there  were  hurt  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Did  my  father  or  I  ever  do  anything 
to  you,  Li  Po,  that  you  should  make  a 

89 


90  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

song  such  as  they  sing  in  the  market- 
place?" 

"What  song?" 

"The  Song  of  the  Cockatoo." 

"I  do  n't  remember." 

"I  '11  remind  you,  Li  Po.  'There 
alighted  on  the  balcony  of  the  King  of 
Annam,'  the  song  goes,  'a  red  cockatoo. 
It  was  colored  as  a  peach-tree-blossom 
and  It  spoke  the  tongue  of  men.  And  the 
King  of  Annam  did  to  it  what  is  always 
done  to  the  learned  and  eloquent.  He 
took  a  cage  with  stout  bars,  and  shut  it 
up  Inside.'  And  was  n't  that  the  cruel 
thing  to  write  I  And  are  you  so  impris- 
oned here,  Li  Po  ?  Ah,  Li  Po,  I  'm  think- 
ing hard  of  you,  I  'm  thinking  hard." 

"Well,  now.  Golden  Bells,  to  tell  you 
the  truth  there  was  no  excuse  for  it.  But 
often  times  I  do  be  feeling  sad,  and  think- 
ing of  the  friends  of  my  youth  who  are 
gone.  Yuan  Chen,  who  might  have  been 
a  better  poet  nor  me,   if  he  had  been 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  91 

fc  —  ■  ■  -  -^.    ■  I  '  ■  ■■    -       .  ^-^-       ■  ■  -^ 

spared;  and  H'sleng-yang  and  Li  Chien, 
too.  Ah,  they  were  great  poets,  Golden 
Bells.  They  never  sang  a  poor  song, 
Golden  Bells,  that  they  might  wear  a 
fine  coat.  And  they  'd  write  what  was 
true,  wee  mistress,  were  all  the  world  to 
turn  from  them.  And  I  'm  the  laureate 
now,  the  court  singer,  living  in  my  glory, 
and  they  're  dead  with  their  dreams.  I  'm 
the  last  of  the  seven  minstrels.  And,  wee 
Golden  Bells,  I  do  be  thinking  long. 

"And  sometimes  an  old  woman  in  the 
street  or  a  man  with  gray  in  his  hair  will 
lift  a  song,  and  before  the  words  come  to 
me,  there  's  a  pain  In  my  heart. 

"And  I  go  down  to  the  drinking  booths, 
and  the  passion  of  drinking  comes  on 
me — a  fury  against  myself  and  a  fury 
against  the  world.  And  the  folk  do  be 
following  me  to  see  will  I  let  drop  one 
gem  of  verse  that  they  can  tell  their  grand- 
children they  heard  from  the  lips  of  Li 
Po.    And  when  my  heart  is  high  with  the 


92  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

drinking,  I  take  a  lute  from  a  traveling 
poet,  and  not  knowing  what  I  'm  saying, 
I  compose  the  song.  Out  of  fallow  sor- 
row bloom  the  little  songs.  You  must  n't 
be  hard  on  an  old  man,  wee  Golden  Bells, 
and  he  thinking  long  for  his  dead  friends." 

"Ah,  poor  Li  Po,"  she  said,  and  she 
had  grown  all  soft  again.  "Is  it  so  terri- 
ble to  be  old?" 

"Now  you  ask  me  a  question.  Golden 
Bells,  and  I'll  give  you  an  answer.  Be- 
sides, it 's  part  of  my  duties  to  teach  you 
wisdom.  Now,  it  is  not  a  terrible  thing, 
at  all,  at  all,  to  be  old.  I  see  the  young 
folk  start  out  in  life,  and  before  them 
there 's  the  showers  of  April,  there 's 
wind  and  heat  and  thunder  and  lightning. 
But  I'm  in  warm,  brown  October,  and  all 
of  it 's  gone  by  me.  And  in  a  little  while 
I  '11  sleep,  and  't  is  I  need  it,  God  help 
me !  The  old  do  n't  sleep  much,  wee 
Golden  Bells,  so  't  is  a  comfort  to  look 
forward  to  one's  rest  after  the  hardness 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  93 

of  the  world.  In  a  hundred  or  more 
years  or  five  hundred,  just  as  the  fancy 
takes  me,  I'll  wake  up  for  a  while  and 
wander  down  the  world  to  hear  the  peo- 
ple sing  my  songs,  and  then  I  '11  go  back 
to  my  sleep." 

And  she  was  going  to  ask  him  another 
question  when  the  Sanang  came  up.  The 
magician  was  a  thick  man  with  merry  eyes 
and  a  cruel  mouth. 

"Golden  Bells,"  he  says,  "there  's  rare 
entertainment  in  the  crystal  glass." 

"What  is  it,  SanangT' 

"The  warlocks  of  the  Gobi  have  a 
young  lad  down,  and  they  're  waiting  until 
the  soul  comes  out  of  his  body.  Come, 
I  '11  show  you." 

And  in  the  crystal  glass  he  showed  her 
Marco  Polo,  and  the  knees  going  from 
under  him  in  the  roaring  sands.  She  gave 
a  quick  cry  of  pity. 

"Oh,  the  poor  lad!" 

Sanang  chuckled.    "He  started  out  with 


94  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

a  big  caravan  to  preach  what  he  thought 
was  a  truth  to  China.  I  've  been  watching 
him  all  along,  and  it 's  been  rare  sport.  I 
knew  it  would  come  to  this." 

"Could  n't  you  save  him,  Sanang?"  she 
cried.  "O,  Sanang,  he  's  so  young,  and  he 
set  out  to  come  to  us.  Could  n't  you  save 
him?" 

"Well,  I  might."  Sanang  was  not 
pleased.  "It  '11  be  a  while  before  the 
shadow  comes  out  of  him.  But  It  would 
be  rare  sport  to  watch  and  see  the 
warlocks  and  the  ghouls  and  the  goblins 
set  on  it  the  way  terriers  do  be  setting  on 
an  otter." 

"Oh,  save  him,  Sanang!     Save  him  !'* 

"Now,  Golden  Bells,  I  might  be  able 
to  save  him,  and  again  I  might  n't." 

"Save  him,  Sanang!"  LI  Po  broke  in. 
*'Save  him  the  way  the  wee  one  wants. 
For  if  you  do  n't,  Sanang,  I  '11  write  a  song 
about  you  that  '11  be  remembered  for  gen- 
erations, and  they  '11  point  out  your  grand- 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  95 

children  and  your  grandchildren's  grand- 
children, and  they  'il  laugh  and  sing  Li 
Po's  song: 

"  'There  was  a  fat  worm  who  considered 
himself    a   serpent — '  " 

"Oh,  now,  Li  Po,  for  God's  sake,  let 
you  not  be  composing  poems  on  me,  for 
't  is  you  have  the  bitter  tongue.  Promise 
me  now,  and  I  '11  save  him.  We  '11  send 
for  the  keeper  of  the  khan's  drums." 

And  they  sent  for  the  keeper,  and  San- 
ang  gave  a  message  to  be  put  on  the 
Speaking  Drums. 

"Let  you  now,"  he  told  his  helper,  "get 
me  the  Distant  Ears." 

And  the  helper  brought  him  the  Golden 
Ears,  which  were  the  like  of  a  great  bird's 
wings,  and  he  put  them  on  his  head  and 
he  listened. 

"I  hear  the  drums  of  the  battlements," 
he  said,  "...  and  I  hear  the  Drums  of 
the  Hill  of  Graves  ..." 


96  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

And  he  listened  a  while,  and  Golden 
Bells  was  white. 

"I  hear  the  Drums  of  the  Dim  Moun- 
tain," .  .  .  and  for  a  while  he  said  noth- 
ing. 

"Those  would  be  the  drums  of  Yung 
Chang  ..." 

"I  hear  the  Drums  of  Kal  Yu  Kwan," 
he  said. 

"Yes,  Sanang,  yes."  Little  Golden 
Bells  was  one  quiver  of  fear. 

"I  hear  the  Drums  of  the  Convent  of 
the  Red  Monks,"  said  Sanang.  "I  hear 
drums  calling  the  Tatar  tribes  ...  I 
hear  the  slap  of  saddles.  I  hear  the  jingle 
of  bits    ...    I   hear  galloping  ponies 


»» 


"Yes,  Sanang.  Oh,  hurry,  Sanang! 
hurry!" 

He  listened  a  little  while  longer,  and 
then  he  took  off  the  Distant  Ears. 

"Your  man  's  saved,"  he  said. 

Then  little  Golden  Bells  laughed  and 


AlESSER  MARCO  POLO  97 


then  she  cried.  She  caught  Li  Po's  hand 
and  laughed  again  and  again  she  cried. 
Sanang  shook  his  head  to  get  out  of  his 
ears  the  deafening  noises  of  the  world. 
And  Li  Po  smiled  out  of  his  sad  eyes. 

"I  think  I  '11  go  and  write  a  marriage- 
song,  Golden  Bells." 

"Whom  will  you  write  the  marriage- 
song  for,  Li  Po?" 

"I  '11  write  it  for  you.  Golden  Bells." 

"But  I  'm  not  going  to  be  married,  LI 
Po.  There  is  no  one.  I  love  no  one,  LI 
Po.    I  do  not.    I  do  not,  indeed." 

"Then  take  your  lute  and  sing  me  the 
'Song  of  the  Willow  Branches,'  which  Is 
the  saddest  song  in  the  world." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  blushed.  *'I 
cannot  sing  that  song,  Li  Po.  I  do  n't 
feel  like  singing  that  song." 

"Then  I  must  write  you  another  song, 
Little  Golden  Bells  ..." 


XIII 

AND  now  when  Marco  Polo  was 
rested  and  had  recovered,  they 
brought  him  from  the  Convent  of  the  Red 
Monks  to  where  the  khan  was  In  the  city 
of  Chandu.  Now,  there  were  two  pal- 
aces in  Chandu;  there  was  the  winter 
palace,  which  was  of  marble,  and  the  sum- 
mer palace,  which  was  of  gilt  cane. 
Around  these  palaces  there  was  built  a 
wall  sixteen  miles  in  compass,  and  inside 
of  It  was  a  park  of  fountains,  and  rivers 
and  brooks  with  the  speckled  trout  In 
them,  and  meadows  with  the  lark  at  her 
ease  in  the  grass,  and  trees  of  all  varie- 
ties where  the  little  birds  do  be  building 
and  none  to  grudge  them  a  home.  And 
all  the  wild  animals  were  abundant,  the 
timid  hare  and  the  wild  deer  and  the  wee 

croaking  frogs,  long-legged  colts  by  their 

98 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  99 

white  mothers,  and  little  dogs  tumbling 
over  themselves  with  the  sport  of  spring. 
Brown  bees  among  the  clover,  straw- 
berries In  profusion,  trees  would  delight 
your  eyes,  and  brown  cows  and  black 
cows,  and  dappled  moilies  under  the  great 
leaves  of  them,  and  lambs  would  be  snowy 
of  fleece.  All  the  flowers  of  the  world 
were  there;  the  paradise  of  wild  things  it 
was,  the  park  of  Kubla  Khan, 

"In   Xanadu    did   Kubla   Khan,"    quoted   young 
Randall, 

"A  stately  pleasure  dome  decree, 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  tvi^ice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  w^alls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  there  were  gardens,  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 

Enfolding  sunny  spwts  of  greenery." 

"Whose    poem    is    that    poem,    Brian 
Oge?" 

"It  is  a  poem  of  Coleridge's,  Malachl." 
"1  though  it  was  maybe  a  poem  of  Col- 


lOO  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

quitto  Dall  McCracken  of  Skye,  that  one 
of  you  lads  had  put  English  on.  It  is  a 
poem  of  the  head,  you  ken,  and  Colquitto, 
being  a  dark  man,  could  only  see  with  the 
eye's  ghost.  But  it  has  n't  the  warmth, 
the  life  of  the  work  of  Blind  Colquitto. 
Brian  Oge,  do  you  mind  the  poem  Angus 
More  Campbell  of  Rathlin  wrote  to  Col- 
quitto Dall?" 

"  75  aoibhinn  duid,  Colquitto  Dall/  " 
I  remembered:  "It  Is  happy  for  thee, 
blind  Colquitto,  who  dost  not  see  much 
of  women.  If  thou  wert  to  see  what  we 
see,  thou  wouldst  be  tormented  even  as 
I  am.  My  sorrow,  O  God,  that  I  was  not 
stricken  blind  before  I  saw  her  amber, 
twisted  hair!" 

"That 's  It,  that 's  it,  Brian  Oge.  But 
this  is  not  the  place  to  be  talking  of' 
poetry.     There  is  no  poetry  in  this  story. 

"I  will  now  tell  you  of  Marco  Polo  and 
him  entering  the  presence  of  the  great 
khan 


«  fe  » 


XIV 

AND  Marco   Polo  was  brought  into 
the  presence.  And  among  all  assem- 
bled there  you  could  hear  a  pin  drop. 

At  the  north  end  of  the  great  hall  sat 
the  Khan  himself,  and  Marco  Polo  nearly 
dropped  with  surprise;  for  where  he  ex- 
pected a  great,  magnificent  figure  of  a 
man,  with  majesty  shining  from  his  eyes, 
he  saw  only  a  pleasant,  bearded  man,  not 
quarter  so  well  dressed  as  the  meanest 
servant  on  the  room,  and  a  fine,  welcom- 
ing smile  in  his  face.  His  throne  was  ele- 
vated so  that  his  feet  were  on  the  level  of 
the  heads  of  the  kinsmen  of  the  Blood 
Royal  beneath  him,  and  they  in  silk  and 
ermine  and  fine  brocades  and  jewels.  And 
beneath  these  were  the  barons  and  dukes 
and  knights.  And  beneath  these  were  the 
captains  of  the  fighting  men,  three  thou- 

lOI 


I02  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

sand  and  three.  And  beneath  these  were 
the  musicians  and  the  sorcerers.  And  be- 
hind Kubla  Khan,  very  big,  very  erect, 
stood  his  three  great  servants,  the  Keeper 
of  the  Hunting  Leopards,  the  Keeper  of 
the  Speaking  Drums,  and  the  Keeper  of 
the  Khan's  Swords. 

And  beside  Kubla  Khan,  on  a  little 
throne,  sat  Golden  Bells  .  .  .  And  it 
was  the  sight  of  her  more  than  the  sight 
of  the  great  assembly  that  dumbed  the 
words  in  his  mouth.  And  Kubla  was  smil- 
ing at  him,  and  she  was  smiling,  too. 

And  Kubla  saw  there  was  something 
wrong  with  him,  that  there  was  embar- 
rassment on  him,  and  he  rose  from  his 
throne. 

"There  is  welcome  for  you  here,  Marco 
Polo,  and  no  enmity.  There  is  interest 
In  and  eagerness  for  your  message.  There 
is  none  here  will  criticize  you  or  make  it 
hard  for  you.  Let  there  be  no  shame  on 
you  in  speaking  before  so  many  people. 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  103 


Say  what  you  have  to  say  as  if  there  were 
nobody  here,  If  that  will  help  you,  barring 
myself    and    the    little    daughter    beside 


me  .   .   ." 


"O  Emperor,"  the  words  came  back  to 
Marco  Polo,  "and  ye,  great  princes, 
dukes,  and  marquises,  counts,  knights,  and 
burgesses,  and  people  of  all  degrees  who 
desire  the  light  of  the  world,  grace  be  to 
you  and  peace,  from  God  our  Father,  and 
from  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ! 

"The  message  I  have  to  give  you,  I 
shall  give  In  the  words  of  Him,  Whose 
perfect  message  It  is: 

"  'Beati  pauperes  spiritu, — Blessed  are 
the  poor  In  spirit. 

"  'Quoniam  ipsorum  est  regnum  caelo' 
rum, — for  theirs  Is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven. 

"  'Beati  mites,  —  Blessed  are  the 
meek.  .  .'  " 

And  Marco  Polo  went  on  and  quoted 
for  them  the  words  that  were  spoken  on 


I04  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

the  Mount  in  Galilee.  And  they  listened 
to  him  with  great  civility  and  attention. 
And  little  Golden  Bells  leaned  forward, 
with  her  chin  on  her  hands,  and  Kubla 
leaned  back  in  his  throne,  with  his  eyes 
half  closed. 

"  'But  I  say  unto  you,  that  ye  resist 
not  evil,  but  whoever  shall  smite  thee  on 
the  right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other 
also.'  "  And  at  this  the  great  Khan  looked 
up  puzzled,  and  a  movement  went  through 
the  fighting  men  in  the  hall.  But  wee 
Golden  Bells  never  budged  a  minute,  and 
Marco  Polo  went  on : 

"  'Et  factum  est;  cum  consumm,asset 
Jesus  verba  haec, — ^And  it  came  to  pass 
when  Jesus  had  ended  these  sayings,  the 
people  were  astonished  at  his  doctrine.' 

"I  shall  now  tell  you  of  the  life  and 
death  of  the  Lord  Jesus  ..." 

He  told  them  of  the  birth  in  Bethle- 
hem, and  of  the  teaching  on  the  hills,  and 
the  poets  nodded  their  heads;  and  he  told 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  105 

them  of  the  cleansing  of  the  lepers  and 
of  the  casting  out  of  devils  and  the  rais- 
ing of  Lazarus  from  the  dead,  and  the 
magicians  wondered;  and  he  told  them  of 
the  betrayal  by  Judas  with  a  kiss,  and  the 
captains-at-arms  shuffled  In  their  seats; 
and  he  told  them  of  the  scourging,  and  of 
the  crowning  with  thorns,  and  the  great 
Khan  snicked  his  dagger  in  and  out  of  the 
sheath.  And  a  mist  of  tears  came  into  the 
eyes  of  Golden  Bells. 

And  he  told  them  of  the  crucifixion  be- 
tween two  thieves,  and  a  great  oath  ripped 
from  the  beard  of  Kubla  Khan,  and  the 
silver  tears  ran  from  the  eyes  of  Golden 
Bells. 

"  'And  on  the  third  day  He  arose  from 
the  dead  .    .    . '  " 

And  a  great  shout  came  from  the 
throat  of  Kubla  Khan,  and  he  stood  up. 

"He  arose  from  among  the  dead  men, 
I'll  warrant;  He  showed  himself  to  the 


io6  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

Roman    Pilate    in    all    His    power    and 
majesty — " 

"No,"  said  Marco  Palo. 

"Then  He  showed  himself  to  the  thou- 
sands who  had  seen  him  die  upon  the  gal- 
lows tree !" 

"No,"  said  Marco  Polo. 

"Who  saw  Him,  then?" 

"His  twelve  Apostles  and  they  in  a  lit- 
tle room!" 

And  Kubla  Khan  sat  down  suddenly 
and  said  no  more.  There  was  a  moment's 
murmur  of  wonder  among  the  assembly, 
and  then  silence.  And  Marco's  heart  fell. 
And  he  was  aware  of  two  things,  of  the 
great  politeness  of  the  Chinese  people  and 
of  Golden  Bell's  pitying  eyes  .  ,  . 


XV 

WHEN  Kubla  Khan  dismissed  the  as.- 
sembly,  and  he  took  Marco  Polo 
into  a  sitting-room,  and  Golden  Bells  came 

with  them. 

"And  what  did  you  think,  sir,  of  what 
I  said?  And  can  you  not  see,  sir,  the 
truth  that's  In  me?" 

"Well,  now,  laddie,"  said  the  great 
Khan,  "when  we  come  to  examine  this 
sermon  you  quoted  to  us,  what  Is  there 
in  it  but  the  rule  of  the  righteous  man? 
We  've  had  a  great  thinker  and  pious  man 
of  our  own,  Confucius.  I  'm  not  a  read- 
ing man,"  says  he,  "but  I  've  got  an  idea," 
says  he,  "that  there  Is  n't  a  thing  you  said 
but  Is  embraced  In  the  Analects.  And  If  It 
is  n't  it  '11  be  In  the  teachings  of  the  Lord 
Buddha." 

"Ah,  but,  sir,"  Marco  Polo  said,  "you 

107 


io8  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

'11  have  to  admit  that  He  of  Whom  I 
speak  was  the  true  God  made  man." 

"Now,  laddie,  remember  I  'm  an  old 
man,  set  in  my  head  and  my  ways,  and 
I  've  been  used  to  one  belief  so  long  It 
would  be  hard  changing.  So  do  n't  press 
me  now;  do  n't  press  me,  I  ask  you." 

"Ah,  sir,"  pleaded  Marco  Polo,  "It's 
terrible  to  think  of,  as  great  a  prince  as 
you  to  be  In  the  black  spaces  outside  of 
heaven  because  you  would  n't  accept  the 
truth." 

"Well,  maybe  they  won't  be  so  hard  on 
one,  my  dear  lad.  When  my  time  comes 
and  I  rap  on  the  gate  of  your  heaven, 
maybe  they  '11  say :  'It 's  only  old  Kubla, 
the  soldier,  is  in  It.  He  knows  devil  and 
all  about  religion,  but  his  fights  were  fair 
fights,  and  he  never  hit  a  man  when  he 
was  down.  He  had  a  soft  heart  for  wee 
children  and  he  was  easy  on  horses.  Sure, 
what's  the  difference?  Let  him  In!'  And 
if  they  say  no,  I  '11  tuck  the  old  nicked 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  109 


claymore  under  my  arm,  and  be  off  to 
where  the  other  old  fighters  are." 

"I  see,  sir,  that  there  was  little  success 
to  my  message." 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,"  said  Kubla 
Khan.  "Wait  a  little  until  you  perform 
miracles  before  the  people  to  prove  your 
truth.     You  '11  know  better  then." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Marco  Polo,  "I  can  per- 
form no  miracles.  'T  Is  only  a  saint  can 
perform  miracles,  and  I  could  n't  lace  a 
saint's  shoes.    I  have  no  miracles." 

"Oh,  well,  now,  my  dear  boy,"  said 
Kubla  Khan,  "I  hate  to  tell  you,  but 
there  's  no  use  going  further.  Sure  you  'd 
be  up  against  the  sorcerers  of  the  world. 
They  'd  ask  you  for  a  sign,  and  you  'd 
have  no  sign,  and  they'd  have  signs  in 
abundance.  I  wouldn't  think  of  letting 
you  go  against  them.  Fair  play  's  a  jewel, 
and  you  would  n't  have  a  chance.  There  's 
the  Red  Pope  from  Tibet  and  there's  the 
Black  Magician  from  Korea  and  a  hun- 


no  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

dred  minor  ones,  and  the  Warlock  of  the 
North,  from  the  Islands  of  Ice,  who  gov- 
erns the  hall  and  the  snow.  Child,  I 
would  n't  let  you  get  into  the  same  ring 
with  them.     They  'd  ruin  you." 

"But,  sir,  was  n't  It  a  great  miracle  of 
the  Lord's,  my  rescue  In  the  Gobi 
Desert?" 

"A  miracle  of  the  Lord's!  A  miracle 
of  Golden  Bells  here.  It  was  her  magi- 
cian saw  you,  and  she  had  the  message  put 
on  the  drums,  and  the  desert  patrols  went 
to  seek  you.  It  was  herself  here,  wee 
Golden  Bells."  And  Golden  Bells'  mouth 
gave  a  smile  of  shame  that  his  thought 
should  be  broken  in  his  mind. 

"A  long  way  I  'm  after  coming,"  said 
Marco  Polo,  "and  when  I  set  out  my 
heart  was  high." 

"Now,  do  n't  be  taking  It  too  hard," 
says  the  khan,  kindly.  "Sure,  there  's  a 
power  of  good  you  can  be  doing  here. 
Maybe  you   can   do   something  with   Li 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         in 

Po,"  says  he.  "I  'd  like  fine  for  you  to 
try.  The  man  is  worrying  the  life  out  of 
me  with  his  drinking.  I  never  know  when 
he  goes  out  whether  he  '11  come  back  all 
right  or  feet  foremost  on  a  door.  For 
he  's  got  the  bitter  tongue  when  the 
drink  's  in  him,  and  China  could  ill  afford 
to  lose  him.  And  there  are  some  of  my 
captains,  and  the  tune  they  're  always 
piping  is 'War!  War!  War!  And  let 's 
show  up  this  Alexander  who  said  he  con- 
quered the  world.'  And  I  'm  past  the  age 
when  you  make  war  for  devilment.  So 
let  you  be  helping  me  out  with  them, 
Marco  Polo." 

But  Marco  Polo  knew  this  was  only 
meant  in  kindness,  and  his  heart  was 
broken. 

"Ah,  wee  lady," — he  turned  to  Golden 
Bells, — "wee  lady,  wee  lady,  why  did  n't 
you  let  me  die  in  the  desert?  Why  did  n't 
I  die?" 

"And    why    should    you    die,    Marco 


112         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

Polo  ?"  Her  low,  sweet  voice  rang  in  the 
heart  of  him.  "Did  n't  you  come  here  to 
give  your  message?  And  to  make  con- 
verts? And  did  n't  I  hear  your  message? 
And  am  n't  I  your  convert,  Marco  Polo?" 


XVI 

AND  now  the  place  of  Li  Po  was 
usurped,  and  gone  Sanang  with  his 
magic  glass,  and  in  the  jasmine  garden  by 
the  Lake  of  Cranes  Marco  Polo  sat  and 
instructed  Golden  Bells  .   .   . 


II:? 


XVII 

AND  he  told  of  the  flight  into  Egypt 
when  savage  Herod  reigned,  and  of 
the  Jewish  maid  and  her  child  sleeping  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  the  great  Sphinx, 
while  the  shades  of  the  old  Afric  gods 
looked  on  in  reverence,  Amenalk  and 
Thoth  and  the  moon-horned  lo,  Isis,  and 
Osiris.  And  the  painted  kings  knelt  in 
their  pyramids,  and  out  of  the  sluggish 
Nile  came  the  strange  aquatic  population, 
the  torpid  crocodiles  and  monstrous  water 
lizards,  and  the  great  hippopotami  lum- 
bered to  bow  before  the  little  Lord  of  all 
things  ... 

And  he  told  her  how  Satan  had  tempted 
Him  on  the  lonely,  black  craigs  .   .   . 

"But  you  are  not  listening,  little  Golden 
Bells—" 

"Indeed  I   am  listening,   Marco  Polo 

114 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         115 

Yes,  indeed  I  am.  I  love  to  hear  your 
voice,  Marco  Polo.  You  are  so  earnest, 
Marco  Polo;  there  is  such  a  light  in  your 
eyes.  Listen,  Marco  Polo,  Li  Po  once 
wrote  a  poem,  'White  Gleam  the  Gulls,' 
and  it  is  the  poem  by  which  he  is  best 
known,  and  every  time  I  hear  it  there  is 
an  echo  in  my  heart.  But,  Marco  Polo, 
I  never  listened  to  Li  Po's  song  so  eagerly 
as  I  am  listening  to  your  voice." 

"But  you  are  not  taking  it  in,  little 
Golden  Bells." 

"It  is  very  hard  to  take  in.  Marco  Polo, 
It  happened  so  long  ago.  It  is  hard  to 
think  of  a  tragedy  in  a  strange  country, 
and  we  in  this  garden  on  the  second  moon 
of  spring.  And  it  was  so  very  long  ago. 
Do  you  hear  the  bees,  Marco  Polo — the 
bees  among  the  almond-blossoms?  And 
see  the  blue  heron  by  the  lotus  flowers? 
And  do  you  see  the  little  tortoise,  Marco 
Polo,  and  he  sunning  himself  on  a  leaf?  If 
I  throw  a  pebble,   Marco  Polo,  he  will 


ii6         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

dive,  and  he  is  such  a  clumsy  diver,  Marco 
Polo !" 

"But  you  must  listen,  Golden  Bells,  and 
believe  me." 

"I  do  believe,  Marco  Polo;  I  honestly 
do.  Do  n't  you  know  I  believe  you?  Any- 
thing you  say,  Marco  Polo  I  believe.  You 
would  n't  be  coming  all  the  way  over  the 
world  to  be  telling  me  a  lie.  Of  course 
I  believe." 

"And  does  n't  It  make  you  happy, 
Golden  Bells  ?" 

"Once  I  was  unhappy,  Marco  Polo. 
I  used  sit  here,  and  on  my  lute  I  used 
play  the  'Song  of  the  Willow  Branches,* 
which  is  the  saddest  song  in  the  world. 
Under  the  moon  I  used  be  lonely,  and 
the  droning  of  the  bees  meant  nothing 
to  me,  and  now  it  is  a  sweet  brave  song. 
I  cannot  play  'Willow  Branches'  any 
more,  so  alien  is  sadness  to  me.  And  the 
moon  smiles.  I  am  very  happy,  Marco 
Polo." 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         ii7 


"It  is  the  True  Religion,  little  Golden 
Bells,  that  makes  you  happy." 

"Is  it,  Marco  Polo?  Is  it?  It  must  be, 
I  suppose.  I  do  n't  know  what  it  is,  but  I 
am  very  happy." 


XVIII 

AND  he  told  her  of  Paul,  who  had  seen 
a  vision  and  gone  preaching  through 
the  world,  who  was  persecuted,  who  was 
shipwrecked,  who  was  bitten  by  a  viper, 
and  who  survived  everything  that  he  might 
preach  the  Lord  Jesus.  He  was  a  fierce, 
ragged  man  with  burning  eyes  .  .  .  And 
he  told  her  of  Paul's  instructions  to 
women  .  .  . 

"You  do  not  look  at  me  when  you 
speak,  Marco  Polo.  Only  your  voice 
comes  to  me,  not  your  eyes.  Is  it  be- 
cause of  Paul?" 

And  Marco  Polo  felt  great  trouble  on 
him,  because  he  could  not  explain.  But 
Golden  Bells  went  on : 

"There    is    little    in   your    faith    albout 

women,  Marco  Polo.     Is  it  a  faith  only 

for  men,    then?     Is   it   against  women? 

Ii8 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         119 


Must  the  young  men  not  look  at  the  young 
women?" 

"No,    Golden    Bells;    the    young    men 
must  not  look   too   much   on    the   young 


women." 


"But  that  Is  very  foolish,  Marco  Polo. 
Is  it  wrong  to  see  the  beauty  of  the  al- 
mond blossoms,  wrong  to  taste  the 
scented  wind?  Is  it  wrong  to  watch  the 
kingfisher  seeking  his  nest?  Is  it  wrong 
to  watch  the  moon,  the  stars?  All  these 
are  very  beautiful,  Marco  Polo,  so  beau- 
tiful as  to  make  me  cry.  Is  it  wrong  to 
watch  them?" 

"It  is  not  wrong,  Golden  Bells.  The 
glory  of  God  is  in  the  beauty  of  his  handi- 
craft." 

"Li  Po  is  old  and  wise  and  a  great 
poet,  Marco  Polo,  and  LI  Po  says  there 
is  beauty  in  a  running  horse  and  beauty  in 
a  running  stream;  but  there  is  no  beauty 
like  the  beauty  of  a  young  woman,  and  she 
letting   down  her  hair.     God  made   the 


I20         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

beauty  of  women,  too,  Marco  Polo,  as 
well  as  the  beauty  of  the  stars.  Won't  you 
please  explain  to  me,  Marco  Polo?  Why 
should  Li  Po  say  one  thing  and  Saint  Paul 
another?" 

"But  Golden  Bells,  Saint  Paul  is  in- 
spired of  God." 

"But  Li  Po  is  inspired  of  God,  too, 
Marco  Polo.  You  must  n't  be  thinking 
little  of  Li  Po.  He  is  fat  and  old  and 
drunken,  but  when  he  sings,  Marco  Polo, 
it  is  the  song  of  the  wandering  stars.  But 
why  must  not  the  young  men  look  at  the 
young  women,  Marco  Polo?  Why  must 
they  not  look  with  their  eyes?" 

"It  will  be  hard  for  me  to  tell  you, 
Golden  Bells—" 

"Look  at  me  now,  Marco  Polo.  Lift 
up  your  eyes  and  look  into  my  eyes.  Is 
there  evil  in  me,  Marco  Polo,  that  your 
eyes  should  avoid  me  as  the  fox  avoids 
the  dog?  Or  maybe  I  am  not  beautiful. 
Maybe  they  told  me  wrong  because  I  was 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  121 

a  king's  daughter,  and  they  would  not 
have  me  think  little  of  myself.  Maybe  I 
am  not  beautiful,  Marco  Polo,  maybe  I 
hurt  your  eyes. — " 

"Ah,  Golden  Bells,  the  little  horned 
moon  is  not  more  beautiful." 

"Then  why  must  not  the  young  men 
look  at  the  young  women,  Marco  Polo? 
You  are  here  to  instruct  me.  Won't  you 
tell  me  why?" 

"Maybe — maybe — maybe  It  is  for  fear 
of  sin,  Golden  Bells." 

"Sin?  Sin!  Why  should  there  be  sin? 
I  know  sin,  Marco  Polo.  They  have 
warned  me  against  it  since  I  crept  upon  the 
floor.  There  are  two  sins.  There  Is 
meanness,  Marco  Polo,  and  there  Is 
cruelty;  and  those  are  the  only  sins.  I 
know  your  heart,  Marco  Polo;  there  is  no 
meanness  there.  You  would  not  have 
come  here  were  you  mean.  The  mean  do 
not  travel  afar  for  other  people.  And 
cruelty !     Surely  you  would  not  be  cruel 


122  MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

to  me,  Marco  Polo.  You  would  not  be 
cruel  to  anybody,  dear  Marco  Polo.  You 
would  not  be  cruel  to  me?" 

"Cruel  to  you,  little  Golden  Bells !  How 
could  I  be  cruel  to  you?" 

"But  the  sin,  Marco  Polo?" 

"I  do  n't  know,  Golden  Bells.  I  do  n't 
know." 


XIX 

AND  one  dusk  the  moon  rose  over  the 
Chinese  garden,  and  Marco  Polo 
finished  telling  her  of  what  John  saw  on 
Patmos  and  he  an  old  man  .   .   . 

"  'Vent,  Domine  Jesu. 

"  'Gratia  Domini  nostri  Jesu  Christi 
cum  omnibus  vobis.     AmenP  " 

"It  is  very  difficult,  Marco  Polo.  I 
do  n't  quite  understand." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  myself.  Gol- 
den Bells.  But  that  is  all  I  can  tell  you. 
But  you  will  understand  more,"  he  said. 
"My  mission  is  finished  now,  and  I  will 
go  back.  I  will  stop  at  the  court  of 
Prester  John,  and  he  will  send  a  bishop 
surely  or  some  great  cardinal  to  baptize 
you  and  to  teach  you  the  rest." 

"You  will   go   back?"     A  great  pain 

123 


124         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

i>  -^ 

stabbed  her.  "I  never  thought,  somehow, 
of  you  as  going  back." 

"I  have  come  on  a  mission,  Golden 
Bells,  and  I  must  go  back." 

"There  is  a  woman,  maybe,  in  Venice 
'— -"  And  she  turned  her  nead  away  from 
him  and  from  the  moon. 

"I  would  not  have  you  thinking  that. 
Golden  Bells.  There  is  none  in  Venice 
has  duty  from  me.  And  if  the  queen  of 
the  world  were  there,  and  she  pledged  to 
me,  I  could  never  look  at  her,  and  I  after 
knowing  you,  Golden  Bells !" 

"Is  it  money,  Marco  Polo?"  she  whis- 
pered in  the  dusk.  "It  is  maybe  your 
uncle  and  your  father  are  pressing  you  to 
return.  Let  you  not  worry  then,  for  my 
father  the  great  Khan  will  settle  with 
them,  too.  There  is  not  a  horse  in  all 
Tartary  that  your  uncle  cannot  have,  nor 
a  woman,  either.  And  your  father  can 
have  all  the  jewels  of  the  treasury,  and 
all  the  swords,  too,  even  the  sword  with 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  125 

which  my  father  conquered  China.  My 
father  will  give  him  that  if  I  ask.  Only 
let  you  not  be  leaving  this  moonlit 
garden." 

"Dear  Golden  Bells,  It  Isn't  that;  but 
I  came  here  for  converts — " 

"Oh,  Marco  Polo,  listen!  There  is  a 
folk  at  Kal-fung-fu,  and  they  are  an  evil 
folk  and  a  cowardly  folk,  and  my  father 
abhors  them.  I  shall  ask  my  father  to 
send  captains  of  war  and  fighting  men  to 
convert  them  to  your  faith,  Marco  Polo, 
or  lop  off  their  heads.  And  we  can  send 
a  few  hundreds  to  the  Pope  at  Rome,  and 
he  will  never  know  how  they  were  con- 
verted, and  he  will  be  satisfied.  Only  let 
you  not  be  going  away  from  me  in  my 
moonlit  garden.  You  will  only  be  turning 
to  trade,  Marco  Polo,  and  marrying  a 
woman.  Let  you  stay  here  In  the  moonlit 
garden!" 

"Ah,  little  Golden  Bells,  there  Is  no 
place  In  the  world  like  your  moonlit  gar- 


126        MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

den.  There  is  no  place  I  'd  be  liefer  than 
in  the  moonlit  garden.  But  little  Golden 
Bells,  I  set  out  in  life  to  preach  the  Lord 
Jesus  crucified.  It  was  for  that  I  came  to 
China." 

"Let  you  not  be  fooling  yourself,  young 
Marco  Polo.  Let  you  not  always  be 
ascribing  to  God  the  things  that  are 
mine.  You  did  not  come  to  preach  to 
China,  you  came  to  see  me,  and  your  mind 
stirred  up  with  the  story  the  sea-captain 
told,  of  me  playing  'Willow  Branches'  by 
the  Lake  of  Cranes.  O  Marco  Polo,  be- 
fore you  came  there  were  the  moon  and 
the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  I  was  lonely. 
O  Marco  Polo,"  she  cried,  "you  would  n't 
go,  you  could  n't  go !  What  would  you 
be  doing  in  cold  Venice,  far  from  the  warm 
moonlit  garden." 

"Sure,  I  '11  be  lonely,  too,  little  Golden 
Bells,  a  white  monk  in  a  monastery,  pray- 
ing for  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  prayed  for, 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO  127 

Marco  Polo."  She  stamped  her  foot.  "I 
want  to  be  loved.  And  there  you  have  it 
out  of  me,  and  a  great  shame  to  you  that 
you  made  me  say  it,  me  that  was  desired 
of  many,  and  would  have  no  man  until  you 
came.  And  surely  It  is  the  harsh  God 
you  have  made  out  of  The  Kindly  Person 
you  spoke  of.  And  'tis  not  He  would 
have  my  heart  broken,  and  you  turning 
yourself  into  a  crabbed  monk.  And  how 
do  you  know  your  preaching  will  convert 
any?  'Tis  few  you  converted  here.  Ahj, 
I  'm  sorry,  dear  Marco  Polo;  I  shouldn't 
have  said  it,  but  there  is  despair  on  me, 
and  I  afraid  of  losing  you." 

"  *T  is  true,  though.  I  have  nothing, 
nobody  to  show." 

"You  have  me.  Am  n't  I  converted? 
Am  n't  I  a  Christian?  Marco  Polo,  let 
me  tell  you  something.  I  said  to  my  fa- 
ther I  wanted  to  marry  you,  and  I  asked 
him  if  he  would  give  you  a  province  to 
govern,  and  he  said,  'Sure  and  welcome.' 


128         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

And  I  asked  him  for  Yangchan,  the  pleas- 
antest  city  in  all  China.  And  he  said, 
'Sure  and  welcome,  Golden  Bells.'  And  I 
told  him  we  would  be  married,  and  go 
there  and  govern  his  people  kindly.  And 
you  would  n't  shame  me  before  my  own 
father,  and  all  the  people  of  China.  You 
could  n't  do  that,  Marco  Polo.  Marco 
Polo," — she  came  toward  him,  her  eyes 
shining, — "let  you  stay!" 

"Christ  protect  me!  Christ  guide  me! 
Christ  before  me!" 

"Marco  Polo!" 

"Christ  behind  me !" 

"The  moon,  Marco  Polo,  and  me.  Gol- 
den Bells,  and  the  nightingale  in  the  apple- 
tree  !" 

"Christ  on  my  right  hand!  Christ  on 
my  left!     Christ  below  me!" 

Her  arms  were  around  his  neck,  her 
cheek  came  close  to  his. 

"Marco  Polo !    Marco  Polo  I" 

"Christ  above  me!" 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         129 


"My  Marco  Polo !" 

"O,  God!    Golden  Bells!" 

And  he  put  his  arms  around  her,  and 
his  cheek  to  hers,  and  all  the  battle  and 
the  disappointment  and  the  fear  and  the 
strangeness  went  out  of  him.  And  down 
by  the  lake  the  wee  frogs  chirruped,  and 
in  the  apple-tree  the  nightingale  never 
ceased  from  singing.  And  they  stayed 
there  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  cheek  to 
cheek.  And  the  moon  rose  higher.  And 
it  seemed  only  a  moment  they  were  there, 
until  they  heard  the  voice  of  Li  Po  in  the 
garden. 

"Are  you  there.  Golden  Bells?  Are 
you  there  at  all,  at  all?  For  two  hours 
I  've  been  hunting  and  could  n't  get  sight 
or  sign  of  you.  I  have  the  new  song,  Gol- 
den Bells.  For  a  long  time  I  was  dumb, 
but  a  little  while  ago  the  power  came  to 
me,  and  I  have  the  new  song.  Golden 
Bells,  the  marrying  song.  .  ." 


XX 

THUS  far,"  said  MalachI  of  the 
Long  Glen,  "the  story  of  Marco 
Polo." 

"That  is  a  warm  story,  Malachi  of  the 
Glen,  a  warm  and  colored  story,  and  great 
life  to  it,  and  Golden  Bells  is  as  alive  to 
me  as  herself  there  by  the  fire,  and  I  can 
see  Marco  Polo  as  plain  as  I  can  see  my 
cousin  Randall,  and  he  playing  with  the 
dogs  ..." 

"If  they  were  n't  real  and  live  and 
warm,  what  would  a  story  be,  Brian  Oge, 
but  a  jumble  of  dead  words?  A  house 
with  nobody  in  it,  the  poorest  thing  in 
the  world." 

"But  Marco  Polo  came  back  to  Venice, 
Malachi,  and  fought  in  the  sea-wars." 

"There  's  more  to  tell,  Brian  Oge.  But 

sometimes  I  wonder  should  n't  the  best 

130 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         131 

part  of  the  story  be  kept  to  yourself.  The 
people  are  n't  as  wise  as  they  used  to  be, 
brown  lad.  The  end  of  a  story  now  is  a 
bit  of  kissing  and  courting  and  the  kettle 
boiling  to  be  making  tea. 

"But  the  older  ones  were  wiser,  Brian 
Donn.  They  knew  that  the  rhythm  of 
life  is  long  and  swinging,  and  that  time 
does  n't  stop  short  as  a  clock.  Sure,  what 
is  a  kiss  from  the  finest  of  women  but  a 
pleasant  thing,  like  a  long  putt  sunk,  or 
the  first  salmon  of  the  year  caught  like  a 
trout,  or  the  ball  through  the  goal  before 
the  whistle  blows?  And  there's  many  a 
well-filled  belly  over  a  hungry  soul. 

"But  a  story  Is  how  destiny  is  inter- 
woven, the  fine  and  gallant  and  the  tragic 
points  of  life.  And  you  must  n't  look  at 
them  with  the  eyes  of  the  body,  but  you 
must  feel  with  the  antennae  of  your  be- 
ing. Now,  if  you  were  to  look  at  the 
Lord  Jesus  with  physical  eyes,  what  would 
it  be  but  a  kindly,  crazy  man  and  He  com- 


132         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

ing  to  a  hard  and  bitter  end?  Look  at  it 
simply,  and  what  was  the  story  of  Troy 
but  a  dirty  row  over  a  woman? 

"But  often  times  the  stories  with  the 
endings  that  grocer's  daughters  do  not  be 
liking  are  the  stories  that  are  worth  while. 
And  the  worth  while  stories  do  be  lasting. 
Never  clip  a  story  half-ways  because  the 
Widow  Robinson  does  n't  like  to  have  her 
mind  disturbed,  and  she  warming  her 
breadth  at  the  fire.  The  Widow  Robin- 
son may  have  a  white  coin  to  buy  a  book 
with,  and  think  you  're  the  grand  author 
entirely  and  you  pleasing  her.  But  the 
Lord  God,  who  gave  you  the  stories,  will 
know  you  for  a  louse. 

"I  call  to  your  mind  the  stories  of  the 
great  English  writer — the  plays  of  the 
Prince  of  Denmark,  and  the  poor  blind 
king  on  the  cliff,  and  the  Scottish  chieftain 
and  his  terrible  wife.  The  Widow  Robin- 
son will  not  like  those  stories,  and  she  will 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         133 

be  keeping  her  white  coin  .   .   .  But  those 
stories  will  endure  forever  .  .  . 

"I  will  now  tell  you  of  Marco  Polo, 
and  him  leaving  China  .    .   . 


XXI 

You  must  see  him  now  as  he  was  sev- 
enteen years  after  he  had  come  to 
China,  and  fourteen  years  after  his  wife, 
little  Golden  Bells,  had  died,  a  lean  figure 
of  a  man,  with  his  hair  streaked  with  gray, 
a  lean,  hard  face  on  him  and  savage  eyes, 
and  all  the  body  of  him  steel  and  whale- 
bone from  riding  on  the  great  Khan's 
business,  and  riding  fast  and  furious,  so 
that  he  might  sleep  and  forget;  but  for- 
getting never  came  to  him  .  .  .  You  might 
think  he  was  a  harsh  man  from  his  face 
and  eyes,  but  he  was  the  straight  man  in 
administering  justice,  and  he  had  the  soft 
heart  for  the  poor — the  heart  of  Golden 
Bells.  He  was  easily  moved  to  anger,  but 
the  fine  Chinese  people  never  minded  him, 
knowing  he  was  a  suffering  man.    Though 

never  a  word  of  Golden  Bells  came  from 

134 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         135 


his  mouth,  barring  maybe  that  line  of 
Dante's,  the  saddest  line  in  the  world,  and 
that  he  used  to  repeat  to  himself  and  no 
one  there: 

..."  7a  bella  persona 
Che  mi  fu  tolta  .  .  .  che  mi  fu  tolta  ;  who  was 
taken  from  me;    Taken!    Taken  from  me!" 

And  oftentimes  a  look  would  come  over 
his  face  as  if  he  were  listening  for  a  voice 
to  speak — listening,  listening,  and  then  a 
wee  harsh  laugh  would  come  from  him, 
very  heartbreaking  to  hear,  and  whatever 
was  In  his  hand,  papers  or  a  riding-whip, 
he  would  pitch  down  and  walk  away  .  .  . 

He  had  just  come  in  from  the  borders 
of  the  Arctic  lands,  from  giving  the 
khan's  orders  to  the  squat,  hairy  tribes 
who  live  by  the  icy  shores,  and  had  come 
to  the  garden  by  the  Lake  of  Cranes,  the 
garden  where  the  Golden  Bells  of  singing 
and  laughter  were  dumb  this  armful  of 
years,  and  he  was  alone,  and  the  listening 
look  was  on  his  face,  when  there  came  Ku- 


136         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

bla  and  LI  Po  and  the  old  magician  .   .   . 

Now  Kubla  was  very  old,  so  old  he 
could  hardly  walk,  and  very  frail,  and  Li 
Po  was  very  old,  too,  and  gray  in  the  face, 
and  sadder  in  the  eyes  than  ever,  and  the 
magician's  white  beard  had  grown  to  his 
knees,  but  there  was  no  more  humor  in 
his  eyes  .  .  .  And  Marco  Polo  helped  the 
old  khan  to  sit  down. 

"Oh,  sir,  why  did  you  come  to  me? 
Sure  I  was  going  to  you  the  moment  I  had 
changed  my  riding-clothes  .  .  .  Sir,  you 
should  have  stayed  in  your  bed  .  .  ." 

"There  was  something  on  my  mind, 
Marco,  and  the  old  do  be  thinking  long 
to  get  things  off  their  mind." 

"What  can  I  do  sir?" 

"Marco,  my  child,  you  must  n't  take 
what  I  say  amiss.  But  I  want  you  to  be 
going  back,  to  be  going  back  to  Venice." 

"Sir,  what  have  I  done  to  dissatisfy 
you?  In  all  my  embassies  have  I  been 
weak  to  the  strong  or  bullying  toward  the 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         137 

weak?  Does  an  oppressed  man  complain 
of  injustice,  does  a  merchant  complain  of 
being  cheated,  or  a  woman  say  she  was 
wronged?" 

"Now,  Marco  of  my  heart,  didn't  I 
say  not  to  be  taking  it  amiss?  Is  there 
any  one  closer  to  me  nor  you,  or  is  it 
likely  I  'd  be  listening  to  stories  brought 
against  you?  It 's  just  this.  I  'm  an  old 
and  tired  man,  Marco  Beag,  and  in  a 
week  or  a  moon  at  most  I  'm  due  to  die, 
so  the  Sanang  tells  me.  Do  n't  be  sorry, 
son.  Be  glad  for  me.  Life  has  been  a 
wee  bit  too  long. 

"And  now,  son  dear,  I  want  to  tell  you. 
You  've  been  closer  to  me  than  my  own 
sons,  and  you  've  been  the  dear  lad.  And 
there  's  not  one  man  in  all  China  can  say 
you  did  a  harsh  or  an  unjust  thing;  but, 
my  dear  son,  't  is  just  the  way  of  people; 
there  's  a  power  of  hard  feeling  against 
you  in  this  land,  you  being  a  stranger  and 
having  stood  so  high. 


138         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

"So  when  I  'm  dead,  dear  son,  there  's 
many  would  do  you  an  injury,  and  treat 
you  badly;  aye,  in  our  family  itself,  though 
they  smile  on  you  now.  Let  you  be  going 
now,  Marco.  I  '11  miss  you  to  close  my 
eyes  for  me,  but  my  heart  will  be  lighter. 
It  will  so.  I  could  n't  sleep  easy,  and  you 
ill  treated  in  this  land  of  mine.  You  ask 
him,  too,  Li  Po." 

"Ah,  sir,"  Marco  laughed, — "and,  Li 
Po,  what  is  ill  treatment  to  me?  Sor- 
row 's  my  blood  brother.  What  I  've  suf- 
fered I  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  more  ?" 

"I  know,  Marco,  I  know." 

"Don't  you  think  I  suffer  now,  sir? 
Fourteen  years  she  's  dead  now,  the  wee 
one  who  lay  by  my  side  in  sleep.  And 
never  a  word  and  never  a  sign.  In  the 
house  where  we  were  married  I  can  see  the 
pool  and  the  willows  and  the  hibiscus, 
but  there  is  never  a  token  of  her,"  he 
broke  out.  "The  leaves  of  trees  cover  the 
pavilion,  the  hair  of  the  musicians  is  silver. 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         i39 


and  dust  is  on  the  blue  and  white  tiles. 
And  she  never  comes  to  comfort  me.  I 
can  't  sleep  with  waiting.  The  stars  never 
seem  to  wane,  and  the  hoar  frost  comes 
on  the  grass,  and  I  'm  always  waiting. 
Christ!  why  should  I  go  back?  I  Ve  for- 
gotten  Venice.  I  've  even  forgotten  my 
God  for  her !" 

"Sanang,"  says  Kubla  Khan  to  the  ma- 
gician, "couldn't  you  do  something  for 
this  poor  lad?" 

It  was  now  dusk  in  the  garden  by  the 
Lake  of  Cranes  .   .   . 

"I  don't  need  any  damned  wizard  to 
bring  my  wife  to  me,"  raged  Marco  Polo. 
"If  she  were  to  come,  she  would  come, 
and  I  in  the  dark  of  the  moon  and  the 
moorfowl  calling.  She  would  have  come 
because  my  heart  needed  her."  And  he 
raged  through  the  dusk  by  the  Lake  of 
Cranes  .    .   . 

"Now,  Marco,  dear  lad,  don't  be  fly- 
ing off  again,  but  remember  that  there  is 


140         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

science  needed  to  all  things.  And  think, 
too,  that  maybe  she  was  not  permitted. 
The  older  we  get,  the  more  we  under- 
stand the  destiny  that  rules  all  things, 
with  now  a  nudge,  with  now  a  leading  fin- 
ger, with  now  a  terrible  blow  over  the 
heart,  and  what  we  think  at  twenty-five 
was  a  trifling  accident,  at  seventy-five  we 
know  to  have  been  the  enormous  gesture 
of  God.  We  are  not  asked  when  we  like 
to  be  born,  Marco,  nor  is  it  up  to  us 
when  to  die. 

"And  again,  Marco,  consider.  If  she 
were  to  have  come  to  you  in  the  dark  of 
the  moon-time,  in  the  strange  mystic 
hours  when  you  can  hear  eternity  tick 
like  a  clock,  your  eyes  would  have  been  not 
on  this  world,  but  the  next.  Your  look 
would  have  been  vacant  that 's  now  keen 
to  discover  injustice.  Your  body  would 
have  been  flabby  that 's  now  whalebone 
and  steel.     And  there  would  have  been 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         141 


no  memory  of  you  in  China,  that 's  now 
like  sweet  honey  in  the  mouth. 

"Would  a  wee  dead  spirit  be  proud  of  a 
man,  Marco,  and  he  just  crying,  crying, 
crying,  and  letting  the  days  go  by  while 
even  the  brown  bee  works,  and  even  the 
grass  grows  that  cattle  may  fatten  and 
men  eat?  She  might  be  sorry,  but  would 
there  be  pride  on  her?  Even  a  dead  wo- 
man wants  a  strong  man. 

"Now,  I  'm  not  saying  that  the  silent 
dead  should  not  have  a  voice  in  our  af- 
fairs when  we  need  them.  But  they  have 
wisdom,  else  what  is  the  use  of  having 
died?  And  if  the  Sanang  can  bring  her, 
she  '11  come  now  and  join  with  us  in  ask- 
ing you,  now  being  the  time  she  's  needed. 

"Child,  be  guided  by  us  three  ancient 
men.  I  have  lived  long  and  have  know- 
ledge of  the  world.  Li  Po  has  lived  long 
and  has  knowledge  of  the  heart.  The 
Sanang  has  lived  long,  and  knows  the  se- 
crets of  the  dead.     If  to  our  three  voices, 


142         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

who  love  you,  there  is  added  a  sign  from 
Golden  Bells,  will  you  leave  China?" 

"If  there  is  a  sign  from  her  I  '11  leave 
China,"  said  Marco  Polo. 

And  it  was  dusk  in  the  Garden  by  the 
Lake  of  Cranes. 


XXII 

THE  Sanang  came  over  to  Marco 
Polo. 

"Give  me  the  black  tress  that's  over 
your  heart." 

And  Marco  Polo  undid  his  coat  and  his 
undercoat  and  his  fine  sark  and  took  out 
the  perfumed  hair,  and  gave  it  to  the 
Sanang. 

"Let  you  sing  a  little  song,  Li  Po,"  the 
magician  said,  "the  way  she  '11  be  hearing 
and  come.  I  have  part  of  her  here,  and 
let  you  put  in  the  garden  the  atmosphere 
she  loved."  And  Li  Po  took  his  lute  and 
plucked  gently  at  the  strings. 

"The  swish  of  your  silken  skirt  is  discontinued," 

he  sang, 

"And  the  grass  grows  through  the  broken  hearth 

stone, 
And  your  room  that  was  so  warm  and  swept  is 

cold  and  mouldy. 
But  he,  the  beloved  of  your  heart,  clings  on, 

143 


144         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


A  fallen  leaf  in  the  chink  of  a  door, 
In  the  chink  of  a  closed  door!" 

And  it  was  dusk  in  the  garden,  and  the 
voice  of  Li  Po  broke,  and  his  lute  stilled, 
and  the  old  Emperor  breathed  his  aged 
gentle  breathing,  and  the  Sanang  said  his 
secret  terrible  formulae,  and  Marco  Polo 
was  tense  as  a  hunting  dog. 

And  suddenly  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 
in  the  perfumed  Asian  dusk,  there  was  a 
beam  like  moonlight,  and  into  the  soft 
ray  of  it  trod  little  Golden  Bells,  with 
her  wee  warm  face,  and  her  wee  warm 
hands,  and  her  hair  dark  as  a  cloud,  and 
her  eyes  pleading,  pleading  .  .  , 

"Go  now,  Marco  Polo,  please  goT* 
Her  lips  made  the  words,  but  no  sound 
came  to  him. 

"Oh,  Golden  Bells,  Golden  Bells!"  he 
rushed  forward,  but  the  moonlight  of  no 
moon  faded,  and  there  was  nothing,  and 
he  dropped  on  his  knees  sobbing  in  the 
dusk  by  the  Lake  of  Cranes  .   .  . 


'^mhmMkWfrM 


XXIII 

AND  after  a  while  he  got  up  from 
his  knees  and  set  his  teeth  on  his 
sobbing  and  threw  his  head  back  a'jid 
squared  his  shoulders  and  notched  his  belt 
and  faced  the  three  ancient  men. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that 's  that." 

He  went  over  and  knelt  and  kissed  the 
Khan's  hand. 

"You  '11  be  seeing  her  soon,  sir,  you  '11 
be  telling  her  .  .  .  everything  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  son,  I  '11  tell  her." 

Then  he  patted  the  Sanang  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  "Thanks!"  said  he,  simply,  and 
he  took  Li  Po's  hand  in  both  his,  and 
they  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment 
and  no  words  came  to  either. 

"Well,"  he  says  at  length,  "I  '11  be  hit- 
ting the  road  then.  I  '11  not  say  good-by 
to  any  of  you.    I  '11  be  seeing  you  all  pret- 

145 


146         MESSER  MARCO  POLO 

ty  soon  again.  There  's  a  war  on  between 
Venice  and  the  Genoese,  and  where  that 's 
hottest  you  '11  find  me,  and  the  quicker  my 
end,  the  better  I  '11  be  pleased.  But  it 
would  be  like  my  luck,"  he  said  bitterly, 
"not  to  be  killed,  but  to  be  taken  prisoner 
and  to  end  my  life  in  some  lousy  jail.  Oh, 
well,  we  '11  hope  for  the  best."  He 
laughed.    "So— so  long!" 

And  the  four  of  them  looked  at  one  an- 
other, trying  to  smile,  and  great  grief  on 
them. 

"China  will  miss  you,  my  son,"  said  old 
Kubla. 

"It 's  nothing  to  how  I  '11  be  missing 
China,"  said  Marco  Polo.  "Venice  I  It 's 
only  a  sound  to  me.  I  '11  be  an  exile  in 
the  city  of  my  birth.  But  what 's  the  use 
of  complaining?  If  it 's  go,  it 's  go.  But 
it  '11  be  funny,"  said  he.  "My  body  will 
be  there,  but  my  heart  and  mind  will  be 
in  China.  There  '11  be  a  gray  eye  always 
turning  to  China,  and  it  will  never  see 


MESSER  MARCO  POLO         147 

China  .  .  .  Queer  I  .  .  .All  the  voices 
and  all  the  instruments  in  Saint  Mark's, 
and  in  my  ears  the  little  drums  of  China 
.  .  .  All  the  sunlight  will  be  glinting  on 
the  Grand  Canal,  but  the  little  rain  of 
China — the  little  rain  of  China  will  be 
falling  in  my  heart  .    .   . 

"Ah,  well,  if  it 's  go,  it 's  go.  I  'd  bet- 
ter be  hitting  the  road.  So  ...  I  '11  say 
good-by  for  the  present  .  .  .  and  .  .  * 

"Oh,  my  God  Almighty!  .  .  ," 


THE  END 
OF 

MESSER  MARCO  POLO 


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